The Tapestry of Words
He wove a tapestry from words,
yet only saw its front—
a riot of blooms and colour,
never the tangled threads behind,
the knotted, messy stitches,
a puzzle of hues where no one
could trace where each line began or bent.
Inside the story he wove, he spoke to someone,
using that man's hands and speech, till there was nothing left to say.
It felt like a real place,
yet nothing existed there, no space at all—
the emptiness between the outstretched arms of a sleepwalker.
A universe without substance, where rain watered the galaxy,
and a frying pan cooled slowly, leaning against a wall.
There would be no certain ending, no protagonist
rising again in each act. He grew tired of repetition,
yet could not bring it to a full close. Only
by falling into the grass could he breathe
the sharp scent of real earth, and see inside the roots
a busy republic. His abstract life
lifted the roof higher, and the flocks of birds that divined upon it.
And this bright, blazed tapestry, its edges blurred,
hung on a nail of stars, high above the road,
replacing every visible landscape.
He always longed to circle to its back,
as he once did in childhood, behind the screen of an open-air movie,
since he could not understand the story woven on its front.
April 20, 2026
Meiao Dental Hospital, Nanjing
词语的挂毯
他用词语编织了一幅挂毯
他只能看见它的正面，花团锦簇
看不见它背面凌乱的针脚
看不见那些纠缠的线索
那更像是一个色彩的谜团
根本分不清任何线条的由来与走向
他在他编织的故事里和一个人说话
他用那人的手和语言编织，直到无话可说
那似乎是一个真实的地方
但无物存在，也没有空间
那是梦游者伸开的双臂之间的虚无
没有实体的宇宙，雨浇灌着银河系
一个平底锅逐渐冷却，靠在墙上
不会有任何确切的结局，不会有主角
在每一幕里复活，他厌倦了重复
但又无法彻底结束，他只有
仆倒在草丛中，才能闻见
真实泥土的腥味，看见草根里
繁忙的共和国。他抽象的一生
抬高了屋顶，和屋顶上占卜的鸟群
而这幅斑斓的挂毯，边沿模糊
挂在星星的钉子上，高悬在道路之上
取代了任何可见的风景
他总想绕到它的背面去
就像童年时绕到露天电影的幕布后面
既然他读不懂它正面上的故事
2026年4月20日于美奥口腔医院
Dreaming of a Dead Poet
I dreamt of a deceased man
once my closest friend,
a poet who once burned with fever
for righteous cause.
I dreamed I met him at Bazaar,
I dreamt that I met him at Bazashi Market
the biggest market in my hometown,
we had not seen each other for years.
Still wearing his black-rimmed glasses,
still grave and stern,
he prodded the frozen meat
and cauliflower
like devils’ heads with his finger,
glancing sideways at me,
as if feeling no remorse
for the harm he once did me.
He seemed to be saying:
this market is vast enough,
it has everything,
this is our motherland,
and how unfortunate our poetry is.
Midnight, 19 April 2026
梦见一个死去的诗人
我梦见一个死者，他曾是我最知近的朋友
一个曾经为了正当理由而发着热病的诗人
我梦见在我故乡最大的市场八杂市遇见了他
我们已经很多年不再见面了
他依然戴着黑框眼镜，依然很严肃
用手指戳着冻肉和魔鬼脑袋一样的菜花
一边斜着眼睛看着我，似乎
对他过去对我的伤害毫无悔意
似乎在说:
这个市场已经够大了，应有尽有
这就是祖国，而我们的诗歌是何其不幸
2026年4月19日午夜
Each of Us
Each of us drags our own grave
wandering across the land, the graves
multiply, rolling, following us.
At times they brim with clear water,
at times utterly empty, not even nettles.
They rise, sink, vanish, reappear,
sniffing at our heels like faithful dogs.
Each of us bury the dead within our bodies.
In every age, there is no new holy grave
for us to inherit and begin again,
to listen with hands, to question through cracks in a jar.
We once believed death held the truth,
but now, reverent doubt stands like a wax figure,
cautiously longing for a miracle.
Darkness descends upon all roads,
only wisps of mist on the road,
flaring now and then with needle-thin light.
Is there still time to write a small poem—
even if no one needs it, like an irritating tag on a new collar,
even if it stands like winter’s white breath for a moment in the air?
I lie awake, listening to the sounds of all things,
listening to empty plastic bottles regain their shape.
This night, this season, are as brief as I am.
19 April 2026
我们每个人
我们每个人都拖着自己的坟墓
在大地上漫游，大地上的坟墓
越来越多，起伏着，跟随着我们
它们时而充满了清亮的水
时而又完全空无一物，甚至荨麻
它们升起，沉落，消失，出现
嗅着我们的脚跟，像忠诚的狗
我们每个人，都把死者葬在我们的身体里
无论在什么时代，都没有一座新的坟墓
可以让我们继承和重新开始
用手去听，以瓶子上的裂痕去提问
我们曾经相信死亡才占有真理
而现在，可敬的疑虑像是某种蜡像
谨慎地渴望着奇迹
而黑暗降临在所有的道路之上
道路上只有一团团雾气在赶路
时而发出针一样的细芒
是否还来得及写下一首小诗
即使无人需要，像新衣服领子恼人的标签
即使像冬天白色的呼吸在空气中伫立片刻
我醒着，听着万物的声音
听着空塑料瓶子恢复原状的声音
这个夜晚和这个季节，都和我一样短暂
2026年4月19日
The Same Rain
How many more rains must I listen to
before I hear the one and only rain,
before I hear the self that is fading away?
Rain only casts a temporary sheen
on the stones of the Ming Palace Ruins.
It drifts far and near; its feet tread upon the water,
countless fine stitches mend a tattered grey cloth.
Rain can always begin anew,
as if all rains are the same rain.
Yet you cannot make the same mistake twice,
not even beneath this very same rain.
This morning, I hear the same rain falling again and again:
on singing towers with lowered red curtains, on open-roofed boats;
on the dimming eaves of monk’s quarters.
But you, listening to the rain, are forever in another rain.
Written on April 18, 2026
at Nanjing Meiao Dental Hospital
同一场雨
还要倾听多少场雨，才能听见
那场唯一的雨，才能听见
那个正在消逝的自己
雨水只给明故宫的石头蒙上暂时的光亮
雨时远时近，雨的脚行于水面
无数细小的针脚缝补着一块破碎的灰布
雨永远能重新开始
仿佛所有的雨都是同一场雨
你却无法犯下同样的错误
哪怕在同一场雨中
今晨，我听见同一场雨反复落下
落在红帷低垂的歌楼，敞篷的客舟
落在僧舍变暗的屋檐下
而听雨的你，永远在另一场雨中
2026年4月18日于南京美奥口腔医院
Goose Pond — In Reply to Helen
Surely this small lake has wandered here
from some unknown far place, bringing its own morning and weather,
it turns every bird that drinks into a goose
it will stay here a season, bearing the name we give it,
not even the endless spring rain and darkness can raise its water.
And so we walk together through the same spring,
by the mountain, like two horses putting forth greenness
a little awkward, a little joyful,
finally free of the heavy gray of a long winter,
yet our voices still seem separated by a layer of cotton.
No denying it: the birds sipping silver light
will migrate with this lake, along with the sand beneath its waves,
undisturbed by the rust of any anchor,
their throaty calls will be round, soft vowels,
they know all lakes under heaven are secretly connected.
And at night, two horses come up from the lake to graze on the shore,
heading deep into the mountains, heads bowed, silent all the way,
their eyes are not yet touched by light,
they walk toward a temple, where a man stands
holding a lamp, staring at a dragon wall, lost in long, quiet thought.
April 16, 2026
鹅池——答海伦
无疑，这座小湖是从不知名的远方
漫游而来的，带着自己的早晨和天气
她把所有饮水的鸟都变成了鹅
它会以我们的命名，在这里停留上一个季节
甚至连绵的春雨和黑暗也不能抬高它的水面
于是，我们便一同散步在同一个春天
在山边，像两匹马发出枝叶
有些笨拙，有些欣喜
终于摆脱了一个冬天的滞重的灰色
我们交谈的声音却依然是隔着一层棉絮
不可否认，那啜饮银光的鸟儿
将随着这小湖一同迁徙，连同水底的沙子
没有铁锚的锈来惊扰它们
他漱喉的声音将是圆润柔缓的元音
它知道天下所有的湖都暗中相通
而在夜晚，有两匹马从湖里来到岸上吃草
一路进山去，不抬头，也无声息
它们的眼睛尚未点染
它们向一座寺庙而去，那里有一个人
正举着灯，照着一面龙壁，久久地发着呆
2025年4月16日
Missed
I set an egg yolk on the outdoor air conditioner unit，
yesterday, downstairs I saw a magpie
alert, it first flew from the ground up to the third floor,
then to the fourth, pecking at that little yellow ball,
I wondered how it had spotted food in midair from the ground.
this morning I placed another yolk,
then went to another room, behind white blinds,
hoping to watch how the bird would arrive and peck,
this gift would rescue me from gray dullness.
But I soon lost myself in reading,
I came upon a poem about a mother bird swallowing her chick’s droppings—
they were like pale yellow bubblegum, swelling up,
as if language, the world, and weather were all contained within.
When I looked up from the words, the unit was empty,
things happen so fast, it astonishes me,
perhaps I have missed more than just my entire life.
April 17, 2026
错过
把鸡蛋黄放在窗外的空调外机上
昨天，我在楼下看见一只喜鹊
机警地先是从地面上飞上三楼
然后再飞上四楼，啄食那个小黄球
我奇怪，它是如何从地面发现空中的食物的
今晨，我又放了一个蛋黄
然后去另一个房间，隔着白色百叶窗
想观察到鸟儿是如何飞来，啄食
这份礼物会将我从灰色的沉闷中拯救出来
但我很快就沉迷在阅读之中
我读到一首关于鸟妈妈吞掉小鸟粪便的诗
那些粪便仿佛是淡黄色的泡泡糖，鼓胀起来
似乎语言、世界和天气都包含其中
当我从词语中抬头，空调外机上已经空空如也
事物的发生如此之快，令人惊异
也许我错过的不仅仅是我的一生
2026年4月17日。
Passing Shaojia Mountain in Spring, Thinking of My Elder Brother Yongping
The mountain is still the same mountain, shaped like a saddle
the valley in between is now filled with tangled green
no one lingers in the hills, nor does water flow
where one might pause for a moment, to see the self of old
Only stones, only trees, only branching paths
leading to memory or oblivion, to where we came from and where we go
which is truer? even light rises late
even the dust we breathe
carries an unspeakable breath of the afterlife
This morning I crossed through the mountain, not to seek you
you dwell in farther hills, on higher ground
entangled with mist and clouds
my cry is but a pale grey stone, falling into the valley
no echo returns, that somber green
still nurtures invisible particles
All earthly toil is but a feast of flowing water
the mountains we climbed together still lie ahead
even between you and me
perhaps I ought to rise like slow sap
up black treetops, blooming into words in the air
Evening, April 16, 2025
春日过邵家山想起大哥永平
山还是那座山，像一座马鞍
中间的山谷已经被杂乱的绿色填满
山中无人，也没有流水
可以让人暂时驻足，照见往昔的自己
不过是石头，树木，不过是分岔的道路
通往记忆或遗忘，来处和去处
哪一个更真实，甚至光也迟迟升起
甚至我们呼吸的灰尘
也带着不便言说的来世的气息
今晨我穿山而过，我不是来寻找你
你在更远的山中，在更高处
和云雾纠缠，我的呼喊只是
一块灰白色的石头，落进山谷
没有回声，那阴沉的绿色
依然在孕育着看不见的微粒
这尘世的辛劳只是流水的盛宴
我们一起翻过的山依然横在前面
甚至横在你我之间
也许我应该像缓慢的树液那样
升上黑色的树梢，在空中绽放成文字
2025年4月16日傍晚
Reflections on Being Ill
How much rot must one endure
to lie here in such vast spring breezes
lying in a earthy world lower than the southern foot of Purple Gold Mountain
The immortality of words is, after all, no more than an unavoidable abstraction
from the lowliest things, ascending toward heights
toward that equally black mountain peak
gathering light upon the slender, reddening branches
Flowers bloom like bustling starry skies
Here, perhaps, there still exists something
adequate to resist the tenderness of chemistry
passing through the empty, frosty corridors of the hospital late at night
to bring wakefulness and rebirth
through profound decay
March 30, 2026
Endocrine Ward, Zhongshan Hospital
病中有感
一个人要经历多少腐朽
才能躺在这般浩荡的春风里
躺在比紫金山南麓还要低的人间
词语的不朽，终究是一种不得已的抽象
从最低处的事物，向高处
向同样深黑的山顶飞升
把光亮汇聚在纤细发红的枝头
花开是繁忙的星空
这里或许依然存在着某种东西
足以抵抗化学的温柔
穿过深夜医院清冷空荡的走廊
以至深的腐朽，带来清醒和苏生
2026年3月30日于钟山医院内分泌病房
Escape in the Morning Mist – Reply to Helen
The nurse’s station in the early hours, a white lake
with only one small bird frozen stiff on its surface
even the rumbling little cart cannot break through
this stagnant, shared air. The world
has suddenly turned into a silent hospital
gliding on a limited sheet of thin ice.
Nowhere to escape. Unless one knows the language of all things.
Across the way, Shaojia Mountain trails pale green spring,
breathing, rising and falling, swallowing mist.
Neither mountain nor mist will show me special mercy,
a whole country lies between them and me.
There is no wisdom to be found here.
My soul must wait for my body.
My soul runs too fast, forgetting
that when parted too long, the body turns to ruin.
I will stay, distilling the morning mist instead,
after all, someone still needs this emptiness of mine.
March 31, 2026
Endocrinology Ward, Zhongshan Hospital, Nanjing，Ma Yongbo
晨雾中的逃离——答海伦
凌晨的护士站，一片白色的湖泊
只有一只小鸟冻僵在水面上
连骨碌碌的小推车也无法打破
这凝滞的共享的空气。世界
突然成了一座无声的医院
在有限的冰面上滑动
无处可逃。除非懂得万物的语言
对面的邵家山拖曳着淡绿的春天
呼吸，起伏，吞吐着雾气
山和雾都不会对我格外开恩
我和它们隔着一个国家的距离
这里没有什么智慧可言
我的灵魂需要等待我的身体
灵魂跑得太快了，忘记了
分开太久，身体会变成废墟
还是留在这里，提纯晨雾
毕竟，还有人需要我的这份虚无
2026年3月31日于南京钟山医院内分泌病房
Watching Water
How I wish for more chances to look back
not on a whole life, but only the past—
as on a train, sitting with my back to the front,
watching the landscape tilt and vanish page by page from the window.
Best to be a slow green leather train,
aimless, no destination, no companion,
patiently eating a fruit that ripened out of season.
There are many things you once belonged to,
yet they never belonged to you.
Sit long enough by the water, and you will begin to flow,
while the current, neither increasing nor decreasing, stays where it is.
To move forward is to turn back, do not hurry,
for you cannot even reach the inside of yourself.
Once, watching water was the romance of waiting for the tide to ebb and stones to appear,
now, you only long to go
to the very end of the water,
where you can arrive without an oar.
April 3, 2026
看水
何以能有更多机会，去回顾
不是一生，而仅仅是过去
就像在火车上，背对前方而坐
让风景一页页从车窗上倾斜消失
最好是缓慢的绿皮火车
漫无目的，没有终点和同伴
耐心地吃一枚错过季节而成熟的水果
有很多事物，你曾经属于它们
但它们从未属于你
在水边坐得久了，你就会流动起来
而流水不增不减，始终留在原地
向前就是向后，你不要着急
因为，你连自己的内部都无法抵达
正如以前看水，是等待水落石出的浪漫
而现在，你只想去往没有船桨
也能抵达的水穷处
20260403
来点龙虾
