Translated by Gu Yiwei and Cassandra Atherton
Death, is another child, with a thin face

Occasionally he comes to play with me, knocks three times,

moderate and regular, forming a habit

Like the scar on his forehead that is uncovered

when he takes off his hat—

It’s a strange mark burnt by Mars, he says

He doesn’t blame his father who smoked every day in clouds

and swam in alcohol, who was old, tied to the post

nor his mother who sat and sighed

at her dresser. His home was in the depths of the flax field across the lake

Unexpectedly, I have never really been there to have a look

(I have headed towards there several times, but returned

Before arriving) or to see the antique furnishings

he described, kept in their proper positions

Sometimes when I am not yet up, he lies prone in the sleeping bag

looking at me; sometimes when I happen to be

drinking milk in the kitchen

there are feathers floating in from the window, something to speak of

He always collects quaint baubles such as

a silent bird, a doddery horse which cannot be ridden,

Some canned fish that aren’t fresh, he probably loved these things

covered in moss in the shade, not heliophilous,

he did not expect them to grow into feral shapes

Before leaving, mum always warned, ‘You have to be home before the sun sets.’

Then we rushed across the front hall

Across some sporadic puddles, and arrived at

The reeds where discarded barges were moored, so

that was how one puddle joined another

You took off your hat to show me your scar

You even took a cat out of your arms, saying it was magic

Out of admiration, and of self-esteem, I said

This is nothing surprising, once I even held a

Colourful tiger in my arms, and let it go

with my hands. Just now a wild francolin flies over head

and you go chasing the luminous curve

As if you love falling, you run like

the rising tide, puddles gradually swallowing up the reed field

It disappears, like an innocent beach gobbled up by the waves

Coming back empty-handed, you spread out your hands, shadowed with sorrow,

‘People always talk about going somewhere far away to dance, but they

Never know where to go, or sometimes go too far,

Forgetting to come back home.’ At times like this, it means goodbye

I look at the puddles, the lake that has formed

The flaming clouds over it, and his home

He said it was only another mark, the same as the one

On his forehead. Then I stepped and splashed about here and there

Strolled back home alone, while my young solitary playmate

Always ran in the opposite direction.