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无题 

神把一切都归于二月

二月的雪二月的海

二月的冷

二月冻死的骨头

堆放在路边

二月的梅花，早发又早谢的迎春花

我的外祖父也死于二月

死于六年前的二月

烟花盛开的腊月二十九

（到底是新年

还是旧年？）

人们才想起时间错位

想起古人的计时方式

想起大雪，小雪

古人的节气

烧炭喝茶画梅花的节气

想起古人过的日子

缩手缩脚，猫着冬

二月的村庄，人丁兴旺

母亲把远方的孩子一个个唤回来

麦子都在雪被下沉眠

梦见春天

二月的夜晚

同姓的人都安睡

许多的父亲，许多的儿子

每一个孩子都有父亲

每一个孩子都想父亲

我把自己也归于二月

我把打颤的手心、发抖的牙齿都归于二月

我把忧郁，沉默和胆怯归于二月

雪也化不开的二月

写诗的手长满冻疮

笔拿不住

雪也化不开

无题           

 

在故乡

在故乡我的心和泥土靠得很近

我守着自家的粮食

看它们死去，发芽，结果

一道细细的河

把雾霾和无线电挡在另一岸

在故乡冬天下真正的雪

面团一样松软

有时我们把自己埋在雪里

寻找彼此的呼吸

在故乡我的父亲仍然行医

药箱是他品质芬芳的老朋友

陪他走过许多

麦子金黄的村庄

他叫得出名字的，叫不出名字的

他不必穿一身冷漠的白衣

不必担心它会沾上血迹

麦粒，河水和小猪肉养成的身体结实

病情都很轻

在故乡

他的好名声会和日光一样响亮

在故乡母亲织渔网也织布

她的皮肤不会被水电，菜价，和琐碎的传言磨损

她每天擦擦炊烟

喂养我和妹妹

在故乡我还会有一个妹妹

梨花一样的妹妹

怀抱梨花的妹妹

洁白如雪

在梨树下等我

在故乡

我逐渐成为一个寡言的人

舌头和牙齿退化

只用来吞咽，咀嚼

它们古人一样诚实

敬畏言语

诚实地近乎笨拙

 

 

“Memories of A City”       

 

I could capture the slightest whispering from passers-by Picked out those proper names in German,

(which I could only recognize)

“Alexanderplatz”, “Lustgarten”,

or “Judith-Auer-Str”.

But I cannot take away

any memories of Berlin.

Yet have I tried for a thousand,

by attentive eyes,

by faithful footprints,

even by a digital camera,

using continuous rapid and hubbub shutters, flashes in secret.

Eyes are always more forgetful than cameras - I know,

but the latter doesn’t have a spirit.

In albums,

pigeons‘ fluffy feathers covering my sight

The flowers blooming in the air,

when the bell rang.

A ray of the mixture of sunlight and dust,

falling on the wooden window lattice

of the temporary classroom,

filled with plaster figures.

The old man played the violin in infinite corridors

His lanky shadow between two rows of Doric Orders, was far more dolorous than his dolorous Chopin Etude.

(Once they were all certainty, but as soon as I left,

all would wither.)

“I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.”

(Quoted from the Bible)

Berlin,

can’t I memorize you

As I can’t memorize any city I have been to.

Then one day,

 

those images, sounds or even smells of the city

suddenly appear,

glinting at the corners of rest life. Like the scent of camphor trees, floating into my nose again.

The dusk above Berliner Dom,

a silhouette reflected on the setting sun in my memory overlaps with another before my eyes at this moment.

The moon hung on the spire of Berlin TV Tower

(- Was this the same moon as the one

I will see in another place in the future?)

Or will the red-white flag of Altes Museum drift in another sky? The steam-whistle of S-Bahn once burst into my dreams.

The stifling stuffiness in U-Bahn on a 38-degree day,

will return to my skin in another carriage in Shenzhen,

my city.

Unfamiliar faces in pale light,

like coins made in different years.

“We strangers face to face.”

(Translated from a Chinese classical poem)

Or like the graffiti seen everywhere,

lighting this ashen mottled city.

(One day when my life turns ashen,

Will those pieces of colorfulness light me?)

“Being a Berliner”,

was the vainest practice I did those days.

Now I realize,

If you must regard the “memory”

as an entity,

as more than 30 days and nights closely interlinked with this city, Moment by moment,

If you must let it to be yours entirely -

(No, it will never be yours entirely)

It is alive, has an independent ego,

has the freedom to disappear.

But all these impressions, feelings, Once disappeared,

will reappear.

At the moment of farewell,

it would break into countless atoms,

 

with all the secrets of past and future,

then explode at an unexpected node of time and space In your life.

-- That is the original form of “Memory”,

that is the last secret of “City”,

Berlin