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Gedicht

Jiang Hao

LITTLE THING

Fly, fly up! I see now
how small you are,
bushes, trees I do not know
are on both sides.
You show me signatures
you collected in summer.
A gray, white road
bathed in daylight,
hid at the foot of a tree
like a little cat, a road
not leading to you or to me.
I count the moles shining
at your waist, one is left
by the reservoir.
Each night the reservoir
counts the fingers
extended by tiny waves,
puts shiny rings on them,
lets latecomers lead them
away like air.
They will wait and wait.
Some stones and dew
I loved are clamoring,
bringing mud from silence.
Sudden lights from
passing trucks
think this is a wasteland.
At dusk we will eat rice
in the mountains, but
not now. It’s safe in the dark.
Fresh Leaves of Grass
decorate the tablecloth
like a bed sheet. In a corner
of a faraway hill, bubbles rest
in a Coca-Cola cup.

小东西

小东西

飞呀,飞起来才看清你多么小。
两边的草丛和树林,
我不认识。
你把夏天收集的签名展示给我看。
一条白天里晒得灰白的路,
小猫般,隐伏脚下,
不通向你我。
我替你数着你腰上闪光的痣,
有一颗遗落在水库边。
每一个这样的夜晚,
它数着细浪伸过来的手指,
给它们戴上闪光的指环,
等后来者领它们空气般离开。
它们会等很久很久。
一些我喜欢过的石头和露水,
鼓噪着,
从寂静里带出泥来。
身边突然而过的车灯,
照见这里的确杳无人烟。
黄昏时,我们进山吃饭。
现在不回去,
很黑很安全。
闻起来又香又甜的草叶集,
把餐布装饰得像床单,
远山一角假寐于杯中可乐的沫面。
Jiang Hao

Jiang Hao

(China, 1971)

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小东西

飞呀,飞起来才看清你多么小。
两边的草丛和树林,
我不认识。
你把夏天收集的签名展示给我看。
一条白天里晒得灰白的路,
小猫般,隐伏脚下,
不通向你我。
我替你数着你腰上闪光的痣,
有一颗遗落在水库边。
每一个这样的夜晚,
它数着细浪伸过来的手指,
给它们戴上闪光的指环,
等后来者领它们空气般离开。
它们会等很久很久。
一些我喜欢过的石头和露水,
鼓噪着,
从寂静里带出泥来。
身边突然而过的车灯,
照见这里的确杳无人烟。
黄昏时,我们进山吃饭。
现在不回去,
很黑很安全。
闻起来又香又甜的草叶集,
把餐布装饰得像床单,
远山一角假寐于杯中可乐的沫面。

LITTLE THING

Fly, fly up! I see now
how small you are,
bushes, trees I do not know
are on both sides.
You show me signatures
you collected in summer.
A gray, white road
bathed in daylight,
hid at the foot of a tree
like a little cat, a road
not leading to you or to me.
I count the moles shining
at your waist, one is left
by the reservoir.
Each night the reservoir
counts the fingers
extended by tiny waves,
puts shiny rings on them,
lets latecomers lead them
away like air.
They will wait and wait.
Some stones and dew
I loved are clamoring,
bringing mud from silence.
Sudden lights from
passing trucks
think this is a wasteland.
At dusk we will eat rice
in the mountains, but
not now. It’s safe in the dark.
Fresh Leaves of Grass
decorate the tablecloth
like a bed sheet. In a corner
of a faraway hill, bubbles rest
in a Coca-Cola cup.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère