FRESH GREEN
by Shizhi Mengren
Every year I go, to my father's grave, to see the same grass grow taller,
and a few new small mounds nearby tucked into the mountainside.
A few raindrops seep into the headstone, nothing remarkable,
but we like to call them tears for our sadness.
Paper ash flies in the wind,
carrying with it sobbing and weeping,
only a few floating clouds remain in the sky.
Under these clouds, with swollen eyes, we turn our face towards the village,
where one person is no longer there, where white pear flowers are blooming.
Pear blossoms, really, so white, so fine, but I won't mourn
the restless souls because of you—
The season now is fresh and green, a mirror washed clean by the rain,
in which we turn into wild mountains and cool shades for ourselves.
|