1
Every morning, I see some cleaners cleaning fallen leaves under the street trees.
Those fallen leaves are some old stories.
A tree without a story is simply unimaginable.
Every tree with lush branches and leaves is growing upwards.
In this cold winter, which withered leaf am I for you?
After this season, how many green stories will you grow?
These poems are falling off my body one by one in the form of fallen leaves.
2
Opening a book, a yellowing ginkgo leaf fell out.
The fan-shaped leaves and fan-shaped veins always point to the sky.
This is a story from many years ago.
Now, it is permanently collected by a book.
How many times have I seen you floating in my poems,
Smiling brightly, slowly degenerating into some barren words.
3
Over the years, I have escaped from your branches again and again, wandering in the wind and singing in the rain.
Now, sit with a book and listen to the sound of time passing by.
Don’t you know that life is reincarnated again and again without interruption? Or is it a wait that starts over and over again?
I don’t know how many people will open this book and read you like a flower?
Or read me like Zen!
4
Do you think time will break out of the ground and grow into a tall tree?
You and I are some of the weak leaves, trembling and walking in the wind,
Traveling hard through time, from youth to middle age, and then again. Go to old age.
We completed the entire walking process on a tree.
When we quietly fall off the branches and are annihilated by the thick dust,
Someone tells us: existence is process, and process is history.
We are disappearing history.
5
Standing under a tree, the wind came and all the leaves were dancing.
How like a group of fish swimming in the deep sea!
The winter sunshine shines mottledly on the leaves.
Those spots are like some sad fish scales, and also like our fleeting youth.
Swim, swim.
Swim through this season, even if we are just some flying dust.