My Memory
Dai Wangshu

My memory is loyal to me,
More loyal than my best friend.
It exists in a lit cigarette.
It exists on a pen painted with lilies.
It exists in an old broken powder-box.
It exists in the wood-fungi among ruins.
It exists in a half-emptied wine bottle,
In torn drafts of poetry, on petals pressed dry,
Upon dim lamps, over still water,
Among all the things, soul or no soul.
It exists everywhere the way I exist in the world.

It is timed, abhors the hustle-bustle of people,
But in seclusion, it will pay me an intimate visit.
Its voice is low,
But it is long-winded, very long-winded,
Long, and trivial, and endless.
Its words are old; it tells the same story over and over again.
Its tune is harmonious; it sings the same song over and over again.

Sometimes it even mimics a sweet girlish voice
Which is feeble,
Mixed with tears, with sighs.

Its visits are erratic.
It may come any time, any place,
Often when I am in bed, dozing off into sleep,
Or very early in the morning.
People say that this is sill-mannered,
But we are old friends.

It will go on tediously and endlessly,
And will not stop until I cry
Or fall asleep,
But I never loathe it,
Because it is loyal to me.