Tonight’s loneliness, you.
Not hearing last night’s rain, it’s cold again.
You’re a tranquil sea, a turbulent Beijing, fallen pagoda flowers on the ground.
 
Stop distracting me, I’m scaling a spider-silk thread.
You’re a nighthawk, waking suddenly at midnight
to feed on my dreams: those Yangzhou Roads, calamities in the Northwest.
 
Stop distracting me, I’m a flower-picker on a spring night.
Walking with you to an abandoned pond in the Forbidden City,
the water runs deep, please close your eyes my little cat.
 
If I laughed, I’d be a young ghost
riding you at nightfall, with elm fruit, staring up into her
ghoul’s face—holding a breath. You’re a tranquil sea,
 
a round-headed boy. I scream out late at night
with no response. Beijing is lovely, a discontent is nearing.
We traipse from south to north—
incarnating into countless millions,
too many for her to grasp. This loneliness
grows with the wind—
 
you’re a tiger, a good match for this spring night.