《天鹅与人》

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我背对城市，
把自己放低，贴近草叶与泥土，
看一只天鹅从远方游来，
像一封未署名的信。

水面铺满了睡莲，
它们圆润而静默，
像岁月缓慢张开的手掌，
托着一只雪白的梦。

风吹过来，云也低头，
柏林的楼影溶进水里，
我与世界隔着这片水光，
轻轻对望一只天鹅的孤独。

也许它懂，也许它不懂，
有人在岸边用沉默，
回答水波里的呼吸。
我们都慢慢靠近，又各自远去。

夏日太长，风太轻，
我坐在这里，
让思绪随它漂浮，
直到再看不见羽毛的弧线。



I turn my back to the city,
lower myself to grass and earth,
watch a swan drift from afar,
like a letter without a name.

Water lilies spread in silence,
round and quiet in the sun,
like time slowly opening its hands,
holding a snow-white dream.

The wind drifts by, the clouds bow down,
Berlin’s towers melt in the lake,
between this light and shadowed world,
I softly meet the swan’s lone gaze.

Maybe it knows, maybe it doesn’t,
someone waits with quiet breath,
answering ripples with silence deep,
drifting close, then far again.

Summer lingers, the wind so light,
I sit and let my thoughts just float,
until the curve of feathers fades,
and only water holds our ghost.