最后的酒徒

在小小的酒桌上
你伸出狮子的爪子
写一首最温柔的情诗
尽管你的笑声浪荡
让人胡思乱想

你的血液中布满了冲突
我说不清你是不是一个酋长的儿子
但羊皮的气息却弥漫在你的发间
你注定是一个精神病患者
因为草原逝去的影子
会让你一生哀哀的嘶鸣

The Last Wine Bibber

By a small table
you stretch out your hand like a lion’s
writing a tender poem
though your laugh is so dissolute
that it let our imagination run away with us

Your blood is fully filled with conflict
I don’t know clearly whether you are the son of the sheik
however, your hair sends forth a smell of sheepskin
you are doomed to be a mental patient
because the died figure of the grassland
will let you shout in a sad voice all your life