By YANG JIAN
He was old.
She, too, was old.
Their years, like lightning, slit the heart of the passerby.
They quickly finished eating a chicken:
He, the head, she, the legs.
From outside the window, a warm spring breeze brushed their faces.
Their hearts stirred for once,
Like the firs in the park,
Towering, nondescript.
It would matter precious little
If they were dead, rotten.
Translated by Stephen Haven and Li Yongyi
Yang Jian’s books of poetry include Dusk, Old Bridge, and Remorse.
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