The mountain range seems a poor child’s gray and white horses
In October’s final night
Fallen into a pool of blood.
In October’s final night
The poor child, carrying a lamp in night, is on his way home tear-flow covers
the face
All die midway to the distant home’s small town
In October’s final night
That man with his back to the tavern’s white wall
Asks about the man buried in the pea-field at home
In October’s final night
Asks for whom the white horse and the gray horse die…… blood blackish-red
Whether their master, carrying a lamp, has returned home or not
Whether the specter of autumn is keeping him company or not
Whether they are all corpses or not
All madly stampeding on that road to the Abyss
To toss me a worn-out collection of poems
In October’s final night
From now on I’ll never write you.
Translated from Chinese by Gerald Maa
Circumference Poetry in Translation Issue 6
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