The Yalu River is cold.
I can imagine the rumbling
despite standing away
from a bush of rape flowers that shining
The head of it lies in those limpid valleys; the tail
of it goes to that vague ocean.
The wind of the Yalu River is cold,
the passengers of which are swarms
of insects; I wonder if
the flagging-leave-like souls feed themselves
by taking human blood.
I just flick at it
when one lands on my limb,
letting water inrush occupy
its nasal cavity, the fallen leaves be retaken by roots,
and the wreckage perish in the mud.
The water of the Yalu River is cold,
for I see
the woman on the other side
scrubbing some tatters, her hands reddened;
2 or 3 juveniles wander
in the reeds, catching those insects
with sweep nets because in summer,
no other feedstuffs remain for chickens, yet the guards come
with spontoons soon after;
A caesious Jiefang truck brakes
in front of a gray school—CHI,
while the kids on it
cheer together—the Praise to the sun;
A sallow thin girl washing her hair
kneeling by a broken basin, she looks up;
I feel that the glance even
though six hundred meters away.
The bridge above the Yalu River is cold.
At the dawn of Harvest moon
many decades ago 260 thousand Chinese youths
encouraged by a bugle call
for defeating liberty.
After hearing this story
the waterweed must whisper me
that he once saw some skeletons and corpses
drifting down the river water
till the ocean, the dead ocean
that I would pass
each time I go back home.
Freedom is cold.
Riverside residents rumor that
at midnight overwhelms the surging river.
Those are the sentry
towers every 500 steps—bunkers, searchlight,
holes in the barbed wire,
Berlin wall in soft bricks.
Tongue-in-cheek ones are not always lucky:
they did conquer the freedom
but plan to swim heading the wrong direction.
I raise my palm
to shade the sharp sunlight. After all,
Helios never worries a bug that bites his shoulder.
A boy no more than 10
pop his head out from the shadow of a dour rock,
the blind zone of towers,
“Give me bread.”
His expression spills limpidity as if an emerald pearl
flicks in the mist,
my visceral sentences could hardly
*The Yalu River is on the border between North Korea and China