Wait until this moody weather is over—-
that’s all that matters.
Some can’t stand your lined face
but I don’t look for an empty landscape there.
All the past gathers in your furrows;
Nothing ever really goes away.
Old Bittermelon, inside
I know your heart,
the tender, gamboge fruit.
You’re not worn-out or beaten-down,
you’re just resting.
The loudest song’s not necessarily passionate;
the bitterest pain stays in the heart.
It is because you’ve seen lots of false sunlight,
too much thunder and lightening, hurt and hurting,
too many indifferent and temperamental days?
Your silence is much to be admired;
you keep the bitter taste to yourself.
In the rows of flowery, tiresome singing
you persist in your own key.
You’d like to heal this bad fever of a world.
Your haunting song would like to soothe our weariness,
open the heart and freshen the eye,
give us the world to chew on again.
In these shaken times, who more than you holds
in the wind, our bittermelon, steadily facing
worlds of confused bees and butterflies and a garden gone wild.
- Leung Ping-Kwan