Foreign countries write unique poems.

40 foreign poem 2014-08-1foreign poem 40 "A belated walk" When I walked along the road through the harvested fields, the crops that had been harvested without heads were lying flat, as if dew had wet the thatched roof and almost covered the path in the garden. When I came to the clearing of the garden, the solemn birdsong coming from the chaos of hay was sadder than any language. On one side of the wall, a tree stood naked, only a lingering leaf remained brown. I don't doubt that it was disturbed by my thinking and fell gently, accompanied by a rustling sound. Not far away, I stopped to pick the last piece of aster and bring it to you again in faded blue. I think of beaches, fields, tears and laughter. I remembered the home I built-it was blown away by the wind again. I want to have a party, but every party is a farewell. I think of the stars running in loneliness, pairs of orioles, and the sunset disappearing in confusion and darkness. I want to cross the vast universe, go to the next planet, go to the last planet. I want to leave some tears and some laughter. Epitaph of a romantic woman [beauty] She got the eternity of her dream, where the ancient stone lay in the sun. Weeds caressed her, with a steady and rapid rhythm, like a young man running. She always sincerely loves other living people-she hears their laughter. She was lying where no one had ever been lying, and of course, no one followed her. "Black Pond" [America] mary oliver/Ni Zhijuan translation It rained all night, and the boiling water level in the black pond calmed down. I took one. Drink slowly. It tastes like stones, leaves and fire. It poured cold on me and awakened my bones. I heard them whispering deep in my body. Oh, what is this fleeting beauty? Butterfly Swedish Nelly Sachs Translator: What lovely afterlife Chen Li and Zhang Fenling are painted on your bones. You are guided through the burning core, through its stone shell and through the fleeting farewell net. Happy butterfly night! As the light gradually returns to maturity, the weight of life and death sinks on the withered rose with your wings. What a lovely afterlife is painted on your body. What a noble symbol in the secrets of the atmosphere. We weave flower baskets here, Nelly, Sweden. "Saxophone Translator: Chen Li and Zhang Fenling, we weave flower baskets here. Some people weave thunderous violets. I only use a straw to fill the silent language and let lightning generate from the air. Nie Luda: Sonnets of Love 100 Translators: Chen Li Zhang Fenling 17 I love you, but I don't regard you as a rose, topaz or a carnation arrow shot in the fire. I love you like a dark thing, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as a plant that never blooms but has its own hidden flowers; Because of your love, a special fragrance rises from the earth and secretly lives in my body. I love you, I don't know how, when and where to love. My love for you is straightforward, not complicated or arrogant; I love you so much, because I don't know what else to do: where I don't exist, you don't exist, so close, the hand you put on my chest is my hand, so close, you close your eyes when I fall asleep. I imagined that I was dead, and I felt the cold approaching me. The rest of my life is contained in your existence: your mouth is the day and night of my world, and your skin is the country I built with my kiss. It all ended in a flash-books, friendship, hard-earned wealth, transparent houses built by you and me: ah, they all disappeared, leaving only your eyes. Because in our troubled life, love is just a wave higher than other waves, but once death knocks on our door, only your eyes will fill the gap, only your clarity will repel nothingness, and only your love will block the shadow. "We won't say goodbye" was translated by Akhmatova Ulan Khan. We won't say goodbye, we walk side by side. It's dusk, you meditate and I'm silent. We walked into dogma and saw prayer, baptism and marriage. We came out without looking at each other ... why didn't we do this? The two of us came to the cemetery, sat in the snow and sighed softly. You drew the palace with a stick, and we will live there forever. Oh, how painful those words made me ... "инналиснянскаяя translated by Li Han, oh, how painful those words made me! They fell from their foreheads like raindrops. Mainstream words hide secondary meanings. Everything is changing gradually, frost is called silver, and even life can't be integrated with my sad craft. Life is in front of my eyes, and everything is hidden in words, just like maple leaves between pages. Only in the face of death can everything find its place. The nail became a nail inserted in its own hole, and the height became the sky. " Translate "инналиснянская" to Zvetayeva Li Han. How light your mental bed is after death, and death no longer takes up time. Here, I have leisure to seriously think about life: genius is born to make humble people noble, and humility is to be down-to-earth with genius. I like my body. I like my body with yours. This is a brand-new thing. Better muscles, more nerves. I like your body. Like everything it does, like its various ways. I like to touch the spine and bones of your body. I like to touch the trembling place firmly and smoothly. I want to kiss it again and again. I like to kiss all kinds of you, I like to touch them slowly, the creepy hairs on your charged fur, and the things that appear on your cracked body ... eyes are big pieces of love debris. Maybe I like you shivering under me. Can you imagine? Mary oliver (USA) Imagine a tree, for example, not only in the moment of thunder and lightning, in the wet darkness of summer night, or under the white net in winter, but at this moment, at this moment, at this moment-we can't see it at any moment. You can't imagine that they don't dance. They are eager for a short trip, instead of crowding together like this, striving for better vision and more sunshine, or coveting more shade. You can't imagine that they just stand there, loving birds or vanity every moment, and the dark rings grow slowly and silently. Nothing has changed except the visit of the wind, but they are immersed in their own state of mind. You can't imagine such patience. Xu Lihong's translation of Zhou Xue's Prayer is not necessarily a blue iris, but maybe it is just a weed in a clearing.