Ai Qing, the sun.
From the tomb, from the dark ages.
From the other side of the stream of human death,
Shocked the sleeping mountains,
If the steam wheel flies over the sand dunes,
The sun is rolling towards me.
It's hard to hide the light,
Let life breathe and tall trees dance for him.
Let the river flow to it with crazy songs.
I heard it when it came.
Insect pupae that sting in winter are spinning underground.
The crowd spoke loudly in the clearing.
A distant city
Call it electricity and steel.
So my heart,
Torn by the hand of fire.
The stale soul was abandoned by the river.
I have confidence in human regeneration,
1937 spring.