The Master of a Wood House
Translated by 星子(Anna Yin)
Retreat, retreat
I return to the acerbic
ocean.
As a tree under the moonlight,
I am its shadow entwined--
free of dust.
when the tree is sprouting,
I am wrapping spring paint
with fragmental texture.
Through its birth pangs,
I am borning.
in the transparent mirror,
I peek the whole process.
This is a classical scene,
a solitary island in the ocean.
A wood house in the island,
or an old temple,
I am the monk bumping the bell;
Twice a day, morning and night.
I sit cross-legged,
drowse, or mumble;
a few obscure lections
no one understands.
I take notes.
Hundred years later,
people may call it poetry;
The sea is muddy* and calm,
a silver mirror hangs in low sky,
pours light on walls;
I am master of wood house,
abstract paintings in the morning,
I echo birdsongs;
on the deep long night,
I spin soft silks out of my body,
I tie up passing flies and myself
fearing ferocious wind;
In fact, I am not as solitary as
I imagine.
Far away from the earth,
A slim lady comes near,
a flower in the mirror
Or the moon in the lake.
With her chipper laughter
she polishes my sick lines,
makes me a warm bed;
Inside the wood texture,
We cuddle each other,
Curled like annual growth rings,
like woodpeckers maintaining
seasons' wound
by their own toothache;
This little tree breaks
ocean's besiegment,
lushly grows and develops.
By selecting fine words and kind greetings,
it decorates plain life,
touches me.
It continuously hides each unhappiness
with rich time scale
And throws all rest coldness into the ocean.
Carving me as a submerged rock,
I won't vagabondize any more.
