Fu Sang







The Night of an Empty Shell (Poem Series)



Where Dust Nests



Chooses households

Like vultures

Not perching anywhere at random


Always in a nap


Sees earlier than the vulture

The inner death of the misanthropists—






The whip of destiny, I’m obedient to you

Like those sheep grazing grass

Obedient to the whip of the herd

Like grass, obedient to the whip of seasons


I’m obedient, not resistant at all


(Obedience, is sometimes the supreme contempt)






Among people I love the weak

Whose hearts bend down

To a hope of being saved, like clenching

A rag with thick dust

My suffering recognizes—-these clansmen


Those who stride proudly

Are far away from me—-

They are luminaries hung highly

With no need for my hands

The tiny, suspicious warmth




Moulding a Statue for Tears


If possible, tears, I’ll mould a statue for you

Not using cold expensive marbles

But warm plain wood

I’ll shape you into a small oar

Strung around the necks of the despairing, clinging to

Their breasts with the last gasp—-

Your stroking has magical powers

In your companionship, they have crossed the adventurous sea

And, on a foggy winter morning

Finally stepped on the massy land wearily and safely




The Night of an Empty Shell


My body has come to the edge of withering

I’ll be farther from men’s adoration, gradually

Reach the desert of life

Vaster and more silent—-


Compared with those bleak clean nights when I was young

(I crouched alone in the empty shell, listening to the sea)

I’m more eager for the warmth of a real body

The temperature of the worldliness

Ah, I hold him

A section of driftwood in the waves of the sea     © Trans. by Shu Dandan











Bio of the Author

Fu Sang, contemporary Chinese poet and doctor, born in October 1970, the author of the collections of poems: Love poems, Fu sang’s Poems.

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