Beyond the trail of tears, where the cottonwoods sigh,

moonlight pools like blood in the cracked riverbed.

I still hear your hymn in the coal-darkened pines—

a ghost-note of hope that the smoke never shed.

We walked skin to sorrow, feet blistered by frost,

trading names for new numbers, our tongues left to rust.

But the drum in my ribs keeps the old rhythm yet,

calling home, calling home, through the iron and dust.

夜色在指尖盛開

象牙白的光暈漫過懸垂的絲綢

你以無聲的呼吸轉(zhuǎn)動銀河的鎖鑰

讓塵埃開出鳶尾

月光沿著你睫毛的弧線傾瀉

鋪滿寂靜的階梯

我低首拾起每一片回聲

將它們藏進(jìn)袖口

心跳無聲

將時間寫成無聲的詠嘆調(diào)

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