AN OLD SONG
   
   
   
   

   
   Like herons in the drifting snow
   a few one-legged mosquitoes stand
   
   
   and at the sight-the snow,
   the night-sobs seize the throat.
   
   
   The rush of water through apartment pipes,
   the tinny blare of a cheap cassette
   
   
   bring childhood back, a dirty face and hands.
   The guest long gone, the snow turns into sleet.
   
   
   The past returns,
   an old, insistent song.
   
   
   On that side of the wall some dishes clatter in a sink.
   On this the night advances, where a man
   
   who can’t go home
   sings loudly as he can against the storm.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   XUE DI
   trans by Lily Liu and Stephen Thomas