Sleep Deeply, Shore
Su Shaolian

On the shore, late one evening
I enter the water quietly
and swim off toward a limpid, sober land beyond the sea.
I am an accomplished swimmer, my stroke is graceful.
Stars look down wide-eyed in startled envy,
and appreciation shows on the full, round face of the moon.
I am a spirit swimming beneath the night sky.

No human being will see me.
I don’t need any experience
or a name
or clothing
or heavy burdens,
because at this moment I am leaving the shore behind.
Mother, I’ve left the shore.

There are so many young men like me!
Their corpses float
all around me:
those of boys I went to school with
and those of my friends.
I have joined them—
a steady stream of tears,
a steady stream of infinite yearning.

I’m a long way from you now, shore.
You must sleep deeply.
I beg the tidewaters not to beat you,
ask the seashells not to disturb you with my messages,
implore the lights not to shake you from your rest.
You must sleep deeply
because in your embrace you hold the cities and the country.
However, all these I have left behind,
including you, shore of China.

I have drifted so far.
In the turning of the earth
the sky stays forever silent,
nor can I say anything.
I am like a floating log
or an empty bottle.
There is nothing sad about all this.
I wish myself far away,
ashore on some virgin continent.

The sea grows colder and colder
till it stops frozen on the tip of my nose.
With a smile on my face, I sink.
You, shore of China, have lost another of your people
but do not wake suddenly. Sleep deeply,
because my family lives on,
lives on, on your
surface.