Translated by Ali McIness

—for Li Chun and His Contemporaries
The reliquary is a candle; the lake by the trees

And the bottle on its shore, drawing on its warmth.

And why isn’t it the bottle?

You raise it, perhaps to take another drink? 
To whistle? Or cast it into the lake,

Rending your lungs in song to the night life.

I, myself, gallop swift as storm winds, the reliquary

Rising abruptly from weekend shopping receipts to

     proclaim: Love!
Hate! That with which your right hand fumbles,

     resembles

Not a computer mouse or western book, but a

     window frame: Push it open,

Let in the fine vapours of translation. Mountain

     forms rising from the babble,

A sandpaper dawn—So false! Against this backdrop 
The reliquary stands a pinnacle; the darkness you

     turn to grasp，

Forever its reflection. Eyes left in attention,

Its gaze follows you. Although it may be gossamer

     soft, fruit flavoured, fluorescent,

Above all else it’s crimson.