English translation (AI-generated)

A thin mist rises along the lakeshore;
the water ripples with a silent, spreading grey.
The leaves are still emerald green,
only the light has grown hesitant.

The corners of the curtain gather stubborn dust
that the wind won’t carry off, nor the rain wash away —
like a blind slowly lowered,
gradually smoothing the window from view.

On the clay vase in the corner,
cracks grow fine as strands of hair,
waiting only for the moonlight to bend down
and gently pick up that crisp, breaking sound.

The roots pull free from the soil —
no wind, no rain,
only the lone desolation seeping from the rock strata,
inch by inch freezing through the bond between tree and earth.

In the valley, the landslide raises no dust;
only the valley floor splits open like an hourglass.
The flow has not changed its pace,
but the last grain will fall into no time at all.

1 July 2025, in Los Angeles

薄雾沿湖畔浮起
水面荡漾着静默的泛灰
树叶依旧翠绿
只是光线变得迟疑

帘角积满顽固的灰尘
风吹不走，雨也不洗
像缓慢覆下的盲帘
逐渐抹平了窗扉

角落的陶瓶上
裂纹如发丝般生长
只等月色俯身来到
轻轻拾起那声脆响

根系从土壤里抽离
无风无雨
只有岩层渗出的孤绝
一寸寸，冻断树与大地的牵连

山谷里，塌方并没有尘起
只有谷底如沙漏般开裂
流速未变
但最后一粒，不再落入任何时间

2025年7月1日于洛杉矶