Zhao Ran 赵然

Zhao Xiaobo 赵小波, pen name Zhao Ran, born in Nanan, Fujian, PRC. He has written since 1980s and worked as a journalist after graduation. Most of his works were published on newspapers and journals. He is the vice-president of News Department of Huaqiao University, editor-in-chief of Huaqiao University Newspaper and column host of "Poetry Exhibition of Chinese Universities."

Wheat Fields 《麦田》

Who was it,
filled up the cup with liquid
of smooth gleam of night,
like the face of cherry wood table.
A drop of water came,
then gone,
left no trace.

Beyond the autumn, the wheat fields
during the harvest season,
sickle in the snow fields,
the floating clouds, as of songs,
are recording the mutations of the grains.

Through the wheat fields,
there are cooking smoke by the ancient path.
After the period,
there are more periods,
as ordinary
as the normal days, back and forth
like a circle.

At midnight,
stars shine like lights.
After one season is over,
in the wheat fields,
beyond the faraway mountains,
who is still there doing the hard work,
and who is there
trying to block the moonlight
with one single hand?

(Translated by Laoha, 2005-7-22 )

A Noon in February 《二月的某个正午》

I was squatting at the corner
of my old clay house wall,
bathed in the sunlight, watching
how a river flowing by in front of me.
(I have been very allergic to frogs,
the animal that belonged to the last century)
The river water was no longer clear,
kind of slurry, in it there might be
not a single living things, like fishes or shrimps.
Though the clay house wall had been collapsed
for some time now, I still squatted there.
Next to me, there was a lonely tree
struggling to burgeon.

(Translated by Laoha, 2005-7-22 )

Languages《语言》

On the street in the deep night,
all the languages started to grow.
One metaphor transfigured from the left hand,
and the symbol of bed held in the right.
At this time,
with sorrow the flower withered quietly.

The plan of the moon night
extended to the street.
Like a tangerine colored liquid,
the air constantly floated around.
The languages discomposed into two different types,
one had nothing to do with truth,
and the other had to be waited for some time.

Trees should be planted, or
some channels with source be dug.
Make it a rule that all languages
be used in writing resume, and
the words must have footnote.
In a dawn surely full of sentiment,
a voice was singing, chimed with another.
Since then, as a carrier,
the language lost its meaning.

(Translated by Laoha, 2005-7-22 )