Like a branch of the pomegranate tree,
We lie here, swaying slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Swaying slowly, o turbaned one.

Like the eyes of a wild deer,
Burning in the forest, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Burning in the forest, o turbaned one.

Like boats left at the shore,
We lie here, sinking slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Sinking slowly, o turbaned one.

Like lumps of sugar candy,
We lie here, dissolving slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Dissolving slowly, o turbaned one.

Like logs of black sandalwood,
We lie here, smoldering slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Smoldering slowly, o turbaned one.

Like a house with walls of unbaked brick,
We are crumbling slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Crumbling slowly, o turbaned one.

I had promised you a poem before I died
Diamonds storming out of the blackness of a piano
Piece by piece I fall at my own dead feet
Releasing you like a concerto from my silence
I unfasten your bridges from my insistent bones
Free your railway lines from my desperate veins
Dismantle your crowded tenements and meditating machines
Remove your temples and brothels pinned in my skull

You go out of me in a pure spiral of stars
A funeral progressing towards the end of time
Innumerable petals of flame undress your dark
Continuous stem of growing

I walk out of murders and riots
I fall out of smouldering biographies
I sleep on a bed of burning languages
Sending you up in your essential fire and smoke
Piece by piece at my own feet I fall
Diamonds storm out of a black piano

Once I promised you an epic
And now you have robbed me
You have reduced me to rubble
This concerto ends.

in the end, cold crows piece together
the night: a black map
I’ve come home—the way back
longer than the wrong road
long as a life

bring the heart of winter
when spring water and horse pills
become the words of night
when memory barks
a rainbow haunts the black market

my father's life-spark small as a pea
I am his echo
turning the corner of encounters
a former lover hides in a wind
swirling with letters

Beijing, let me
toast your lamplights
let my white hair lead
the way through the black map
as though a storm were taking you to fly

I wait in line until the small window
shuts: O the bright moon
I’ve come home—reunions
are less than goodbyes
only one less

Songs, but the bloody revolution goes unnoticed
August is a ruthless bow
The vicious son walks out of the farmhouse
Bringing with him tobacco and a dry throat
The beasts must bear cruel blinders
Corpses encrusted in hair hang
From the swollen drums of their buttocks
Till the sacrifices behind the fence
Become blurry
From far away there comes marching a troop
Of smoking people

I am the old sculptor and with fancy’s chisel
I created you one night from the marble of verse
Cutting facets of desire on the gemstones of your eyes
I paid for the soft glances of a thousand dark eyes

On your tall form, which tempts me to wash you,
I have sprinkled the moon’s sparkling wine,
A potion to guard you from evil-eyed harm
From the jealous ones I have stolen you from

To refine the curves and curls of your form
I have reached out in need to beg from all sides
From each woman’s body I carve something borrowed
From each I rob a dance, a glance, a nod

But you, an idol whose eyes avoid your maker
Cast me down in the dust at your feet
Drunk with pride and distant from my pain
You break faith, it seems, with your creator

Beware! Behind this curtain of need
I am that blind, capricious sculptor who shaped you
One night when your love’s rage makes me insane
The shadows will also watch me break you.

Homeland, once more, I'll build you,
If needed, with bricks made from my life.
Once more, I'll support your ceilings,
If needed, with columns made from my bones.
Once more, I'll seek in your flowers
The perfumes of a new generation.
Once more, I'll cleanse your body of bloodstains
If needed, with my tears.
Once more, one shining day, darkness will leave this house.
Once more, I'll paint my poems blue,
Reflecting the colors of your sky.
Once more, he will raise me, like a glorious mountain,
The Judge and Resurrector of old bones.
Ancient I may be, but given the opportunity,
Once more, I'll begin youth, among my children.
I'll sing "The Love of Home" with passion,
Filling every word with vitality.
A fire still burns in my breast,
Fueled from the warmth of my people.
Once more, you will give me your strength,
Even though my poems are blood-clotted.
Once more will I build you with the substance of my life,
Though it requires powers beyond mine.

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