Poetas del mundo

A Dot

Running in a race with destruction, nowhere to hide, a dot runs;
destruction blossoms dottedly, large dust-flakes pressing down;
a dot runs, desperately, heart-full of passing through scudded clouds
across the sky, across fallen homeland, piercing the waist of evil creativity.
An angel looks back, everywhere no shelter, who is demolishing, demolishing
with full speed ahead? Homeless, helpless, I run and run and run at a loss, no touchdown,
a dot running on tips of needles, on blades of knives and chopping boards,
a dot, tiny as a conjured dust, the only remainder of our soul,
a dot, casted by a big ball of desire to survive. Thanks god!
I ride and ride and ride a flower parachute, three flower umbrellas,
against waves of spraying dangers, and incessant crises swell, swell, swell...
There must be actions! No. 20 dot kicks a shot, making the bullets fly;
No. 13 dot dashes out like a slant shot out of a barrel.
Riding bees, buzzing about, at least nine dots
fly through 9 millimeter bean-shaped lights in the hell-deep towering
of frightening. Twinkle dots falling,
hopes splashing, flashing sparkles!
Struggle! Struggle! Lifting two sewing needles,
threefold be the curse I weave and weave and weave 'round the disorder's head,
a bag of saving oneself, a preaching finger
covers me, who lay down under the sky, towards the flameout morning sun.

          Trans. by Xuan Yuan and the author

Zhao Si