I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars. — Og Mandino

po_Yiduo-WenWen Yiduo (November 24, 1899– July 15, 1946), born Wén Jiāhuá, was a Chinese poet and scholar.

 

 

 


DEAD WATER
Wen Yiduo

Here is a ditch of hopelessly dead water.
A cool breeze would not raise the slightest ripple on it.
You might throw in some scraps of copper and rusty tins,
or dump in as well the remains of your meal.

Perhaps the green on copper will turn into emeralds,
or the rust on tin will sprout a few peach blossoms.
Let grease weave a layer of fine silk-gauze, and
mold steam out a few red-glowing clouds.

Let the dead water ferment into a ditch of green vine,
floating with pearls of white foam;
but the laughter of small pearls turning into large pearls
is broken by spotted mosquitoes stealing the wine.

Thus a ditch of hopelessly dead water
can yet claim a bit of something bright.
And if the frogs can’t endure the utter solitude,
let the dead water burst into song.

Here is a ditch of hopelessly dead water.
Here beauty can never reside.
You might as well let ugliness come and cultivate it,
and see what kind of world comes out.

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SNOW
Wen Yiduo

Night has scattered countless fury flowers from heaven,
Woven them into a big feathery cloak,
And gently wrapped the weary world
From head to toe,
Adding a shroud on the corpse.

She buries the fish-scaled roofs,
But not the thin threads of blue smoke rising from atop.
Ah! The twisting threads of blue smoke!
As a poet’s ascending soul,
After filtering through its own body,
Goes straight toward heaven.

The strutting wind and frost batter the earth;
In the forest the shivering masses, after long battles,
At last see her white feathery cloak,
And yell together with glee:
“Peace has come; our struggle has succeeded!
Isn’t this the white flag of night’s surrender?”