Yang Zuoping

In youth my aims were high, and I excelled in mathematics and science. Newton and Einstein were the ones I revered.

I scorned the many peaks; all I surveyed seemed low. With confidence ten-thousandfold, I would stand upon the summit.

Then a strange wind rose at once; flying sand rolled up the stones. Flood and savage beasts—in an instant they threw up the waves.

The common people were plunged into misery; culture sank beneath the water. Classes stopped, work ceased; we wandered streets and lanes.

The red book was a totem, green uniforms and armbands. Books were burned, scholars buried—the champions of the movement.

Rivers were overturned, seas upended; those at the helm grew arrogant. Four ghosts waved the flags; demons and goblins filled the ranks.

A host of monsters shouted; tigers, leopards, jackals, wolves. Slogans rang out; posters covered the walls.

Rebellion had its vigor: beating, smashing, burning, looting. Our household's fortune—disaster struck and left its wounds.

Torn to fragments, we swallowed on; the more we endured, the wilder it grew. Students were lost; ruffians had their day.

Cut off midway, our splendid hopes were gravely wounded. The ladder to the clouds snapped; we had dared to walk toward heaven.

To leave or stay we could not settle; we wavered, forward and back. They laughed at fire in the city; I grieved for the fish that perished with it.

When the hares were dead, the hounds were cooked; then up to the mountains, down to the countryside. Morning and evening, cloud and sun; the world ran hot and cold.

The body labored, wet with sweat; to a hungry stomach the rice was fragrant. In a thatched hut, lonely and dull, I played the violin for pleasure,

and read at leisure on the slopes and paths to pass the hours. Of many famous books, Shakespeare alone I prized.

The way of philosophy ran deep—Kant and Hume. The temple of wisdom: did I dare to enter?

Out of step with the times, I wrung my hands; I had no chance to leave a name. The day I hoped for came back empty; I earned my clothes and bread.

The road forked, the class was far; I hurried, anxious and worn. Three years of delayed study, hoping to change my state.

A certificate was easy to obtain; to leap out of the bran-basket was hard. After bitter winding through, change came at last by luck,

and idle hours opened—why then this melancholy? Youth had gone far away; the heart was ash, the will undone.

To ease my cares I took pleasure in chess and cards; lost in them, I wasted days, and let the barren years run out.

A commoner of the marketplace—how was I otherwise? When the calendar turned to a new year, I feared to be asked my age,

for the years raced like a swift carriage; a mantis arm cannot hold them back. I sighed at the late sun on mulberry and elm; dusk spread, vast and gray.

Then chance brought an opening: I was invited to write poems on paintings. Ancient lines and modern diction—alas, this was not my strength.

Long in decline and solitude, yet some inner store remained. Recklessly I agreed, and gathered courage to try.

The itch to play had not died; my tastes kept me company. I questioned doubtful meanings, and met with mockery and jest.

Inwardly bent, proud in the bone; outwardly frank and direct. In gift and power we differed: you were the weaker, I the stronger.

Inspiration burst forth; feeling poured in a flood. I first stepped onto the poetic stage, talent high and spirit bold.

I shunned the mediocre; each act must astonish. One tree burst into flower; a thousand fruits hung in abundance.

The western glow is fair—yet I still remember the morning sun. The branches flourish, too showy; I feared it looked like boast.

I longed to publish, yet feared the presumption. Who counts praise or blame? What harm in envy or in admiration?

I hold these strange works in joy, and wait the while for dust and death. Let praise attend when life is done; let the soul be washed in the Yellow Springs.