Translated from Chinese.
I know the sound of a tree uses every leaf
Songs come from the lungs of the earth
Look, how beautiful an apple sounds when it drops to the ground
by deviating from the throat and tongue of morality and the rails of aesthetics
and by overlapping with all my poems
I know a tree is a still river
In my brain chunks of ice are clashing, melting. Oceans in the dream
are surging to the finger-tips from my chest, I’ve heard the first drop of a tiny cry
in the dark root of the spring, the glass-breaking sound
comes from the depth of the nightingale’s throat
I am familiar with the face of the life, a single piece of paper will suck
the ocean of its depth. Are all my poems just a dream?
The sunlight above me keeps heaping up, ascending
A group of worker bees are shouting a work song
I have heard the sound of the earth coming to life, stained with the taste of rain
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