Green Bristlegrass
Yu Guangzhong

Who, after all, can argue with the grave
When death is the only permanent address?
When all the condolers have left,
What if the undertaker’s back door
Faces the south or the north?
The coach looks always ready for exile,
And nonce can dissuade it from the trip.
So-called immortality
May prove nothing but an empty password
For whoever must travel at night,
Even if it works and convinces.
None ends up taller than the bristlgrass
Unless his name soars to the stars
To join Li Bai or Rilke
while the rest
Is left behind beneath the grass.
Keep names to names, dust to dust,
Stars to stars, earthworms to earthworms.
If a voice calls under the night sky,
Who, indeed, is going to answer
Except a glimmer from above
Or a cricket from below?