露臺上的詠嘆調單薄成榻前的宣敘曲，
葉子虛空了手，在階前
貼著浮雕。蠶食的風
（啊，它總是來得稍早一點）
開始積存蟲卵與歲月。
夕陽下的芝麻桿釋放著銀玲的笑，
戈壁上豎起狼煙，古戰場的廝殺靜默無聲。
天空因此杳闊、夜色因此稀薄。
所有的距離都再次古典。
篝火。狼的眼睛。星斗漸遠。
燈下的人背負著背影
用食指在桌面上
畫另一個人的輪廓。
翻開的書頁上有楓葉的光澤。

Duets on the terrace thin to recitatives on the couch,
leaves have cleared their palms, their veins carving
a low relief on the steps. The wind, nibbling,
(that always comes a little earlier than it should)
begin to stock eggs of insects and summer warmth.
In the afterglow, sesame stalks smile, silvery, like
beacons rising on the Gobi, ancient battle cries muffled.
Wider becomes the sky and clearer the night.
All the distances are classic.
Campfires. Wolf eyes. Sparse stars.
A person under the desk light, bearing on his back
his own shadow, stretches his index finger
to draw the outline of another,
the open pages glazed with maple scarlet.