(周红星, 译: 郭慕义)
Night, at noon. Even the brightest blaze from beyond

my window glances off the hotel’s heavy drapes.

Each morning’s case numbers leap higher than the last –

look, how they dance before my eyes, like family. 
                    ~
            Another morning snagged from time’s slipstream,

            another hasty year. A few free hours

            is still all I get; that, and these wet streaks

            broken hard across the back of my palm. 
                    ~
How long since I stumbled into this country, young

and foolish, where snow now falls about my temples?

Such palaces of pleasure, they tempt your gaze too.

Don’t be fooled. I’ve tasted what they have to offer. 
                    ~
            Unawares, I’ve come into a city

            where decades might pass if you aren’t looking –

            a breeze among the willows. How long more

            till the day I return? The heart rustles. 
                    ~
This city’s towers burrow deep into the clouds

while all around, wind and rain pelt down like the plague.

I’m sick of hearing the rich and their drinking-songs.

Who pities those who only show themselves by night? 
                    ~
            No-one has told the birds, whose happiness still shakes

            the very tips of the branches. There is sickness

            in the air, and all night: hard rain on my window

            though this morning the view was never quite so clear.



 

《坡城记忆》
周红星
酒店闲窗日已高，

重帘未卷头昏沉。

昨日暴增病例数，

唯有闭目思家人。
          *
光阴似箭渡，

偶得半日闲。

揉碎思乡泪，

匆匆又一年。
          *
年少无知闯异国，

鬓角白发容颜崔。

举目灯红酒绿处，

苦辣酸甜皆自知。
          *
懵懂入坡城，

转瞬数十载。

清风拂柳枝，

何日能归来？
          *
坡城楼高钻入云，

疾风细雨昼夜淋。

朱门酒歌寻常过，

谁怜昼伏夜出人。
          *
靓鸟未知坡病增，

枝头戏耍欢快鸣。

昨夜窗外淅沥雨，

晨起景色分外明。



 Zhou’s title, ‘坡城记忆’, borrows a diminutive form of Singapore’s Chinese name. Translated literally, it refers to a skewed or sloping city.

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