Rain on Start of Winter

By Ma Yongbo

The sea is grey and misty, a realm of chaos,
where sky and sea merge, rain ushering in early darkness.
The square prow rises and falls with the waves,
one cabin at the bow, lit with a lamp,
another at the stem, with a swinging hammock.
Tin lanterns weigh down tilted nautical charts,
below deck, bundles of books serve as ballast,
ropes, knives, canvas, water buckets,
an albatross drags its wings.
Perhaps there’s even the skull of an old friend,
emitting a slight shuffling sound.
The wind blows, causing the concave sails to rebound,
beating against the slightly swaying mast.
The sails at the fore and aft have merged,
a solitary lamp atop the mast replaces the lookout.
I occasionally set down my pen to listen,
or go to the deck to check the wind’s direction.
A white whale glides past the bulwark,
in the distance, a lone iron chimney rises.
The crew’s whereabouts are unknown,
perhaps they’ve joined a jungle expedition to venture inland.
Only I, from time to time, glance at the binnacle,
or pull on the capstan pulley, then return to my desk,
letting my punt drag through the dark fog,
glide, brushing past all the world’s coastlines.