We were pleased to work with China's Poetry Journal(诗刊), from 2019 to 2022 bring these poems to our readers.
Poetry Journal（诗刊, Beijing, China）was founded in 1957, with an emphasis on the publication of contemporary Chinese poetry as well as classical poetry by living poets. It is the widest-circulated poetry journal in China,
either with a rope, wooden yardstick, leather tape or steel ruler.
I estimate it with my spirit: the building I call home
is three hundred meters from the sea, the sound of seagulls
often wakes me up at night.
Sometimes I go to the ocean’s shore to watch
the waves waving their arms at me from afar,
but my heart is not stirred.
Ah, the sea, an aqueous desert, man-eating water.
Those died at the sea from thirst
never received an apology from it.
Oh, the sea, revered drunken god,
crouching under the black reef behind my house,
expiring a dizzying spell.
I do not live off the sea,
therefore our association is not complicated.
Whoever feels like flattering it or cursing it, go ahead.
I’ve heard from local fishermen that
the sea seldom surges over the cliff to repay a visit,
but oftentimes sends out piratical winds to give women headaches.
I wish it would rush up once, with lashes
of thunder and lightning, howling and hurling omens of destruction,
like those sandstorms I saw in the desert.
Translated by Duckyard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
were you still deep in thought regretting your zealous youth?
"In the warm glow of atonement stars,
I said my prayers, giving my gratitude.”
Terrestrial and aquatic forces, wind, and fire surge, and dissipate.
How do shrimps die? How do ants die?
Life is an off-chance, as flukey as a blind turtle at deep sea coming close to driftwood,
but how fast it grows and decays —
after breakfast comes lunch, and it will be dinner again soon.
Thinking about this, evening prayers…
Thinking about how to be, as Goethe put it,
unfathomable in old age,
shall we never to forget, not even for a minute,
those who have pained us?
*Translator’s note: Liang Zongdai (1903–1983) was a Chinese poet and translator, one of the most popular poets writing in free verse in early 20th Century.
Translated by Meifu Wang with Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-AHWO0P1TfjCNwLetFLKNw
Gulls and herons to glide the rivers and riverbanks.
River clams to strain sand for pearl and jade production.
Schools of fish to perform a translucent shadow dance.
Wetlands to set up a reception for migratory birds.
Flowers to unlatch the doors for Spring.
Honey bees to set up rendezvous with beauty.
Waterfalls, precipices, and jagged rocks to wake us from dreamland.
Secluded winding paths to help us explore mountains and rivers.
The street peddlers to broadcast folk songs.
The embroidery shoe shops to revive colorful good old days.
The dye shops to boost the supply of indigenous blue.
Barking dogs and crowing cocks to showcase pastoral life.
Fireflies to take charge of midnight lighting.
Whooping cranes for celestial noise control.
Nightingales to stage forest concerts.
Hilltop inns to livestream sunrise for millions to see.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
He is seldom sloppy, almost always precise in every step,
his timeworn hands can still chisel out the prettiest waves.
The unused scrapes have a residual life,
the rest were sent to the crematoriums.
Some wood shavings floated up and down,
smelling of decay already;
some saw dust stays on his head like snow
that refuses to be shaken off.
He traces back and cross-examines every piece of wood;
each piece is a unique piece,
nicely textured, elegant and sleek.
The finished pieces sit on another side, waiting for their final
adornment, their bridal gowns.
Now, a few things are coming to a conclusion.
This time when the door opened,
someone absent for thirty years appeared.
His adversary finally came after thirty years.
Already old, he handed him a cigarette
and lit it for him:
“Ah, it's time to have my coffin made.”
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
is a lake — a teardrop of a peach blossom, let me call it Peach Blossom Pond,
three feet deep, and farmer Wang Loon* lives nearby.
I love the fish in the water, who pick the best bits to eat,
and flap away the carefree days. I love that peasant woman with a hoe on her shoulder,
raking and weeding, and feeding all the city folks and a hectare of radishes.
But clearly this luminous lake is the moon that Wang Loon
secretly handed to me, which shines like a mirror
and plays the music of heaven and earth.
Translator’s note: Wang Loon was a friend of the famous poet Li Bai in Tang Dynasty. Wang Loon was a city magistrate. After leaving office, he moved his family to a country house by Peach Blossom Pond, where Li Bai visited him several times, and wrote a poem titled Gift to Wang Loon : "The Peach Blossom Pond, a thousand feet deep, is not as deep as Wang Loon's friendship."
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/E2qxRSv5R9kXkOBgn3_Pvw
This ancient passage has slimmed and become untraceable
except as a boldfaced line on a preservation list.
Each time a leaf falls, Old Soul feels a cut on his skin.
Old Soul sits across from me,
recuperating by sipping tea, which releases the latent power
of sunset in each unfurling leaf.
The tea gets stronger as it steeps, but the written world
has become so diluted that it tastes almost monastic.
Men and horses travelled this tea-horse corridor, arriving
at this pavilion, panting, resting and packing off until blending with the dark,
transporting a doze of serenity to the world.The tea I keep
is the best among all orders of teas,
joining Old Soul as the only true friends of mine in this world,
a lantern leading me out of the woods, shining it bright.
Translator’s Note:
*Sweet Dew Pavilion is a pavilion on Yaozijian corridor, a 30-km section of the ancient Tea-Horse trade route. Yaozijian: literally Hawk Sparrow Point.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/CSSN7bxnouX-sA_EcL-l0Q
of the mountain. Fair-weather cumulus clouds overhead,
sun's rays reaching down like tight rubber bands,
with one end on the earthly broadleaf trees.
We sit down,
no thought of walking further. In the distance,
a pair of birds zoom in and out of a closed atmospheric cell.
We continue to chat, investigating the grass around us.
The moist air is being lifted up along the muntain wall,
therefore we probably should expect rain.
We retrace our steps, trampling again on the grass
that has just recovered from our weight earlier. Leaving the mountain,
our cleats trod on potholes till we reach the road
that will take us back home.
Approaching home, we see our brilliant father tuning in
to the city channel transmitted from the TV tower on the mountaintop.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
I gave a rufescent wool sweater to a jackstraw. Since then, all the migratory rufescent birds startled when they saw me—those flying north, as well as those flying south. Then, as if with team spirit, they boldly opened and flapped their wings.
The rufescent birds in flight were staggered to see me—the single flier, as well as those in a flock.
When I went abroad —certainly you might take it as going into exile— that same year in September, Mother pulled out yarn from a train of burning clouds to knit the rufescent ribbed sweater for me.
She gave it to the jackstraw for the long trip in the winter, because the color represented the rufescent hope of a migratory bird, flying north, towards my native home, the eternal home.
The rufescent birds startled when they saw me—those with songs, as well as the silent ones.
Translated by Duckyard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/KUrC8rQDILbza6CDCSgq0Q
Cold spring days, they always give the alley a romantic look.
Cold spring days, they always deaden the camphor trees.
That year you bought The Three Musketeers,
the other year your father saw a ghost in the alley.
These days when we talk about memories, we are in fact
professing midlife. Ah well, in middle school
a raindrop spattered on the desk, it was wiped off.
In middle school, a raindrop splashed on the textbook,
it was wiped off, and a girl fell for the geography teacher;
what could we do?
Ah well, years later, you fell in love with the pine trees.
Nothing in the world compares to this
view, this serenity, this intimacy, and liberty;
only the pine trees are worthy of this airy golden age.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
of a needle. A top secret hidden in a thick riverbed,
similar to the formation of amber.
Flower fairies dance in thousands,
fanning honey, giving it the clarity of a child’s eyes.
How their golden wings arouse feverish dreams —
a golden atrium, bathing in silky golden rays.
Watch that golden swarm from flowers to flowers,
count the teary eyes of flower romancers.
A beekeeper is hooked on the venom of flowers.
I guard my spoonful of gold,
No word, except to listen to the buzz on the windowpane,
once, twice, thrice...
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
but its crashing waves can't subdue the city furor.
First a short holler, then a long howl, followed by a hoot,
it was a huckster with a head of ruffled hair.
It took only spare change to hire him, to pass on
a scrap of our fortune to this tobacco-puffing drudge,
shouldering two baskets of duckweed with a pole,
while the only weight on us is the ferry ticket.
In this world, some sentiments live on
while the rest dissolve in the evening rain.
It is said, go to Chongqing if you are downhearted,
the hot pot there is the last romance for the mortals.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
Sooner or later I will age, grow wrinkles and scales,
molt of the human shape, and embrace other forms of life:
under the soil of Mast Village.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊, Beijing, China）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/m9b-721XvVzV_Za3CH5BfQ
This mountain hollow, this twilight, this wind and twinkling stars,
the pleasure-seeking world beyond the mountains,
the horse that scorns
convention and mediocrity,
they all hear a distant voice,
speaking in verse
while snipping off the bushy parts of the year
and feeding them to the grass.
The humming insects, books, toothaches, cigarette butts, and ruins
have always been lethal.
Early morning, he glides through silence like the wind
with a smile ear to ear,
thinking of the children
who catechized him about the "beards" on his legs —
But they will never meet again, as if they had already died
at the moment of meeting.
What lives on is the innocent encounter.
To meet again, it will not happen,
leaving only a distant voice,
speaking in verse
while snipping off the bushy parts of the year
and feeding them to the grass.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊, Beijing, China）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/rvmtPwPXnlu2vyDkyWO4zw
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
When the north window opens, my dreams will take off
across the garden, to the ocean of clouds.
The bookish me will play music again,
sounding off emptiness and vastness,
and trigger the water to flow and the clouds to dance.
How would you imagine: deep in the nebulas,
out in the galaxy — a book of knowledge without pagination,
surrounded by pearl suns —
there would be a hermit under the tree
waiting for someone to come back with wine.
But before showing his smile,
he carelessly trips over a parcel of white cloud,
and immediately falls off, into the oblivion.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
People and things I commingle or only leafed through,
the monotonic or flamboyant friendships,
the melancholy or quandary I alone know,
how reliving them is useless but indispensable.
To someone like me, a bad case of delusion and nostalgia,
the frail inner castle is held up only by memories.
For example, right now, I am missing an old friend,
seeing him as the earthwork of my ailing kingdom
that's eroding fast but having no way of stopping the runoff.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
like a twig of winter plum breaks in a loving hand.
A metaphor’s beauty is subtle,
its nobility kept under the cover of humility.
Although the fat cats are staging a farce today,
their props will be stripped off tomorrow,
gone with the toxic dust behind their fat horses.
A fervent heart poises itself before an icy glance,
and wags its tongue to sway a heart;
a poet is masterful in both.
As if running with a tight rein on,
the body arches up, bending
to the point of breaking: partly to satirize,
partly to praise.
To offer a poem is to skip a stone, you wait and wait and wait
for a "plop" to come from the middle of the mirror lake.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
the long road doesn’t really need a blazing light.
Along the way, he continues to control the flame
and leads us through the night.
We talk to each other on the way,
two shadows with blurry faces,
in low voices, and our footsteps are also light.
The torch can reignite itself
when it grows dim as there are still sparkles in the ash.
Finally it burns steadily, and we’re almost home.
Father shakes his wrist, sending the ash to fly in the wind
— no need to save the barks anymore, no longer dreading
the journey as if in dire straits. The flame is roaring,
shining beautifully on the last stretch of our road.
We look radiant ourselves as if walking out from a giant halo.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊, Beijing, China）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/m9b-721XvVzV_Za3CH5BfQ
Their stalks, a leaf or an array of leaves, do nothing but look green and daydream.
Who knows, but the small hoe by the wall may curiously grow into an orchid.
Of course I can do the same — sit here for an hour or longer. Eyes closed,
let the sun diffuse the knolls in me, wholeheartedly.
The music is beating faster than tears can fall: there’s an urgency in it, more than the seeds feel in the soil
to outgrow the rotting roots and stalks, and do what orchids do,
poised and comfortable with themselves.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
In this great land, where grass, mountain range and free spirits perch untouched over the years,
the afterglow of the setting sun will give rest
to my portly body.
One direction leads to the Silk Road west,
the other end points to the old capital Chang'an.
It seems only the sunset on Yabulai Road
can seduce me to spill out words about
the joyful encounters and the parting sorrows on my overlong journey.
It seems forever that the wind and the rolling sand
combine to make the car rumbles louder.
Those in decay continue to decay, and the reborn look forward to reliving.
On Yabulai Road, under the golden rays,
someone is going to fall into a deep dream tonight,
but who can predict it?
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
with your eyes’ yardstick, but don’t let it weaken your knees.
Every mountain pass and every tight curve
throws you to the precipice of falling, and leaves you in pieces.
Luckily a swaying roadhouse awaits on the hillside.
Luckily a strong tea slakes your thirst before the mountaintop.
The higher up, the closer you are to an irenic world,
under a lighter weight of time…
Translator’s note:
Yardstick Mountain is a peak in Mingshan Mountain Range in southwest China. It is famous for its upright profile, like a vertical yardstick, hence the Chinese name Tiechi Liang (Yardstick Mountain) and the Tibetan name Tiejie Ri (Shining Forehead).
Translated by Duckyard Lyricist, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/XTVl3JPbeNqw8yBD_F4Qng
walking under the pines, carrying a shoulder basket or not;
the golden needles under his feet has medicinal herbs'
psychedelic affect, like the fog in front of you.
How do you imagine things unseen: pines, all elegant?
A tunnel without an apparent end. Easy to think of it
as a labyrinth of words. And to see a bridge
spanning midair with car wheels slowly turning,
and a monotone old cat striding gracefully
on the mountaintop, staring at
things that it cannot see.
Note: Driving down China’s Highway G60, from Shanghai to Kunming, one will pass by Elegant Pines Tunnels No. 1 and Elegant Pines Tunnel No. 2, with a bridge spanning midair connecting the two tunnels.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/z6TQ7P6kfIEkA3wawbrWCQ
*In Mandarin, the word “elephant” is homophonic with the word “grand vision”, or “grand illusion” as in Buddhist teaching.
—Translator’s note
The meadow stays green, the spring lies in the mountain,
but the Tang Dynasty outpost nearby is reduced to a playground,
an emperor’s dragon robe for rent at 20 yuan
— to see the sea in a drop of nectar —
plus, for free, the drifting clouds and the wind-swept willows.
Dreamer Zhang is not bothered by any of that,
but focuses on keeping his tiny house safe,
including his wife’s tomb after three decades together.
His left leg is prone to arthritis past midnight;
not an old fogey in looks, but he longs for the end of life’s toil.
Arm in arm, all of us took part in
the death of the grand vision. The thing to do now
is to remember the hard times when life is good, to foresee
bloodshed in peacetime, to keep our minds open for epiphanies.
The only destructible part of life is our old skin.
Why not climb the Fairy Mountain.
Why not visit the Wonders of Crater Cavern.^
Translator’s note:
^Wonders of Crater Cavern, or Tiankeng Difeng in Chinese, is a Karst physiographic region characterized by a big sinkhole and an underground river system including caves. It is located in Fengjie near Chongqing, China . It is also known as the Heavenly Pit.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/7vg98ZVa2yWwH1dXMvKQrw
The tree I brought here from the countryside has only bare ribs left,
its leafy twigs clipped away. New shoots grow
on old wounds, but they swish and rustle with a Beijing twang.
I have been practicing my hometown dialect,
mostly in the deep woods or on a cropland.
I hope to regain my mother's lilt and flow
that echoed through the mountains,
especially when she called us for dinner. I am an absent son,
missing home-cooking, dreaming of
returning to my elderly father, to the sounds of Nature,
to be graceful like the handsome cornstalks; the wind
has carried my longings to somewhere far, far away.
I have been practicing my hometown dialect,
for fear folks would treat me like an out-of-towner
if I err in speech when I indeed go home again.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
Past the tropical rainforest, I arrive at Banda Aceh*.
October is the coolest, the most delightful month.
The silver beach, the smell of cappuccino,
the sky wearing a glittering shawl,
am I looking at the same seagulls
flying northwest to the far side of Sumatra? Against an iridescent sky,
a tall ship is sailing in, looming over the headland of the Noazi River.
I remember the ancient who went out to the Western Seas^
from a country revered by tribes across the world;
it is said that it was October when he returned for the seventh time,
greeted by braying seagulls and a cadre of coconut trees.
Today, I walk around the Noazi river mouth,
waiting to catch the fast ferry to Budaken Island,
and finally see the seagulls,
but I sink into a moment of melancholy
because these gulls no longer fly to the distant lighthouses,
but seem to circle around and over the beach, forever and ever.
Translator’s note:
*Banda Aceh, a city on the tip of Sumatra Island, Indonesia
^ Between1405 and 1433 CE, Chinese mariner Zheng He commanded expeditionary voyages to Southeast Asia, Indian subcontinent, Western Asia, and East Africa.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/mW4UGWqLAxovMM34TyDriA
prefering this over that, then one day they became connoisseurs,
loving this over that, then they became true aficionados without knowing.
Among the stone collectors I met was a middle-school teacher,
now retired, but when still a missy,
this Mongolian teacher, by the name of Tuya,
traveled places all over Yingen Sumu, Uliji, Chagan Zadege
to find stones like men did.
She had a soft spot for yellow jasper,
loved an agate only if it’s spotless,
pure red or pure white.
She didn’t believe all jade needed polishing:
a true lover of stones
do no harm to stones.
She made her son
bring out a box and another box of stones
for us to choose,
not because she had outgrown them,
but because of money worries,
she must endure the parting pain.
I could sympathize with her.
Before we agreed to a deal,
she pondered our intentions
as we pondered her agony of mind.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f
to spend time with loved ones, to eat assorted kebabs he made.
The discussion turned to soccer, vegetable garden, fine-brush painting,
and nine ways of slow-cooking cutlassfish.
Love affairs were treated as a matter of the mind.
On the other end of the phone, rain was pouring down.
The discussion turned lively:
which shop was cleaner;
what flowers to make a room romantic;
for the first rendez-vous, should it be in a cafe or bed?
As they chatted, there stood Shanhai Mountain Pass**,
the rebel king had broken the defense line,
smoke signals were burning around Coal Hill,
outside Beijing’s Xizhimen Gate***.
What do you say, shall we talk on the phone tonight?
He texted back in-between selling beers: Sweetie, I won’t be home
until the football match ends at midnight.
On the riverbank of Songhua River, he and his friends had nothing to do;
one of them, who would die within two months,
said to everyone playfully:
After I leave tonight,
I won't be returning tomorrow nor the day after.
Never to return would be that moonlight tonight,
the dinner dishes he painted for his girlfriend,
and the lovely smell of Russian bread and Borscht soup from the kitchen.
In the moonlight of another city, his girlfriend read a story to her child.
A cozy, home-like scene?
Not everybody thought so.
The phone made a clanking sound,
hanging up on all love.
No reasons given, no warning signs,
the man who sold beer by Songhua River
fell into deep sleep; it's said he didn't have even 100 yuan on him.
Translator's notes:
*The Songhua River is over 1,400 kilometers long and flows from the Changbai Mountains on the China-North Korea border through Jilin and Heilongjiang provinces in China's northeast.
**Shanhai Pass is one of the major strategic passes along sections of the Great Wall of China, located in the northern province of Hebei.
***The Emperor Chongzhen (r. 1628-1644) hanged himself from a tree on Coal Hill in Jingshan Park, a park located behind the northern gate of the Forbidden City. It was from the Gate of Military Prowess that the Emperor exited the northern gate and made his way to Coal Hill.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal（诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/OmDz9uVH6xjMBkRtGgXVhQ
