Z A N G D I
__________________DRIFTING
Translated by Martin Corless-Smith and John Balcom
Drifting
Some water sizzles on the stovetop,
sending up steam, enlivening
the morning. Some water
in a cup makes for shallow philosophy.
Some water you just drank,
not from the same cup.
Some water contains sugar,
but it's no substitute for juice—
where in our soul
is this viscous shoal Composed?
Some water is used to brew this year's new tea.
Some other water is used to brew the evening news,
Some water surges
us into absorbing characters.
Some water is turbid,
where an iron bridge crosses it, a cross is formed. On
some water dragonflies leave messages,
the morning exercises of the ripples break them into lines.
Half of some water is used
to filter our adulthood,
the other half is used
to rescue our absences.
Some waters are remote, and butterflies
change them into fountainheads.
Some water is unable to escape from the mirror's empire.
In this way some sins are
washed by our confusion.
Some water is pumped over an embankment
traveling through rusty pipes.
Some water drips, let your mind linger on
three words: small, slow, bright.
Some water is busy with this and that.
But this doesn't necessarily indicate that
some people are taking off their work clothes and masks,
and taking cold showers in their homes.
Some water contains fish, on
some water there are wild ducks or mandarin ducks
they slowly float together
in a politics of landscape.
Some water is unable to stir,
because of its good conscience, or because
the third person tells the second person
that the heart of the first person is dead.
Some water dehydrates them. But
some other water goes from inside to outside
some water flows in advance, and
you are still accustomed to lifting a corner of your dress
to wipe the tears of happiness away.
Some water makes sounds, I know
you want to tell me: “It sounds so sweet.”
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