by Hai Zi
At night
I carry ancient roots
to the field
Green frog legs, green sockets of the moon
and a green bullet shell
all bloom
on my back
In the morning
I return to the village
knock at the door
A bee looking for water
lands on my neck
thinks I might be
a well above the ground
Mother opens the door
and sees through the well
a roll of moist trees
all kneel down
bow to the plain and to her:
Mother – they cry –
Mother
Translated by Ye Chun