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Poetry

December 2nd, 1997, at Night

Translated from Chinese

A blizzard lures us toward Poland,
bringing us almost to the border.
We should have turned north at Dresden, instead
headed due East, to halt in open farmland
whose sound is the lightest of rumbles.
Later, filling up in a prison town,
I realize we never noticed
the Chopin on the radio.

Read the author's "Sinologist"

English

A blizzard lures us toward Poland,
bringing us almost to the border.
We should have turned north at Dresden, instead
headed due East, to halt in open farmland
whose sound is the lightest of rumbles.
Later, filling up in a prison town,
I realize we never noticed
the Chopin on the radio.

Read the author's "Sinologist"

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