Ginggo
Guo Mo-ruo

Gingko, I hold your dear, but I, at a loss as to why you are called Grandpa Tree. However, as to the name White Fruit the average man gives you that is within my easy reach.
To my knowledge, the characteristics you show are not confined to the similarity between you and the apricot in your fruit, the pure silver white of the peel and the rich nutrition contained in the core—the characteristics are just self-evident.
Nevertheless, it is beyond the knowledge of the average man that you boast the remotest antiquity among flowering plants, and your pollen and ovules are reminiscent of the natural properties of an animal. You are a rare treasure, having defied the passage of time entirely by virtue of human preserving power.
Though you are nameless in Nature, you stand upright, in a supercilious manner, with your resonant song of the triumph of the human world echoing in the air.
You are an oriental sage and a living monument in Chinese culture. It is in China alone that you exist, which seems unknown to the average man.
When I visited Japan, I found you there. But you are definitely an overseas Chinese residing in Japan, and your residence in Japan could have witnessed an equal length of time with that of Chinese culture in Japan.
You are entitled to the honor of the national tree in China. I like you, and I dote on you, not because you are a specialty in China, but because you are beautiful, true and benign.
You are noted for upright trunks, luxuriant branches and folding-fan-like green leaves, so pure, so exquisite!
In summer, you helmet countless temples with lofty canopies and shelter numerous laborers with overhanging cool shade.
The parasol tree is not as firm as you, though equally upright.
The white poplar is not as dignified as you, though equally luxuriant.
A soft breeze will curry favor with you and flocks of birds will sing melodious madrigals for you. I feel that whenever the bright moon climbs high in the sky, God and immortals, should there be God and immortals, would enjoy a get-together at your feet.
The season of autumn sets in when butterflies have come to their lives' end. However, when your jade green leaves turn golden yellow, gardens are likewise alive with flying butterflies in the air.
Aren't you an expert magician? But you are devoid of any contemptible world-wise airs.
When you are stripped of leaves with your bare twigs sticking up towards the sky, you never flinch even a wee bit from the cold wind and the frosty snow.
You look so dignified and detached. I'm afraid that no monk could have been so noble as you ever since Buddhist dharma came into being.
You strike no affected or submissive attitude, but you are never vulgar; your virtues travel far and wide like music floating everywhere, but you are not conceited. You impress people with the spirit of “transcendence”, transcending al herbs and plants, transcending everything earthly, but you do not retire into solitude.
Isn't it right that your fruit could be used as nourishment for human health, that your body could be made into solid instruments, and that your dead leaves could serve as an ideal kindling fuel?
So I really feel perplexed: why do most Chinese seem to have sunk you into deep oblivion, into such deep oblivion ever since remote ancient times?
To my knowledge, your name does not enjoy a proper place in China's classics, for I rarely find that you are eulogized in the verses composed by Chinese poets and seldom see that you are visually presented in the paintings made by Chinese artists.
How earth is it so? As a witness to the ancient Chinese civilization, don't you feel equally puzzled?
Gingko, you have indeed slipped from the memory of Chinese people though your white fruit enjoys popularity among them. It is a fact that they fail to have committed you into their memory.
It is not rare that there do exist a large number of people who fail to tell beans from wheat, but is certainly rare that such a plant as you has escaped from the memory of so much humanity for such a long time.
Hey, isn't Chongqing, the interim capital, the best place? Even there, I can hardly find the faintest shadow of you. Why are all the locusts planted along the streets? Why are all the eucalyptuses in the gardens?
How I miss you, gingko! I sincerely hope that you won't forget China.
It is really hard to hold you here. You might vanish from this soil of China once you feel offended, I'm afraid.
Your melodious song of praising the beauty of life can never be echoing in the air of China.
Gingko, it is my sincere hope that the day will come when, simply because they can enjoy more of your white fruit, Chinese people will love you.