Read an Excerpt
Perhaps
WEN YIDUO
Perhaps you have wept and wept, and can weep no more.
Perhaps. Perhaps you ought to sleep a bit;
then don’t let the nighthawk cough, the frogs
croak, or the bats fly.
Don’t let the sunlight open the curtain onto your eyes.
Don’t let a cool breeze brush your eyebrows.
Ah, no one will be able to startle you awake:
I will open an umbrella of dark pines to shelter your sleep.
Perhaps you hear earthworms digging in the mud,
or listen to the root hairs of small grasses sucking up water.
Perhaps this music you are listening to is lovelier
than the swearing and cursing noises of men.
Then close your eyelids, and shut them tight.
I will let you sleep; I will let you sleep.
I will cover you lightly, lightly with yellow earth.
I will slowly, slowly let the ashes of paper money fly.
In Your Room
WANG JIAXIN
In your room, whatever you hang on your wall—
an image of a horse, a picture of the masters,
or even a sketch of St. Petersburg—
will become your self-portrait.
And on the street you walk, whatever you look at,
whichever tree, or whatever kind of person
you encounter, you too are one of them …
you, then, have no basis to be self-righteous.
