There is a famous account of Jiang Yan, an official of the Southern Dynasty. One night, he dreamt a god presented him a wondrous writing brush. From that day forward, his literary talents were beyond compare. When he grew old, the god appeared again as a dream and retrieved the brush. Jiang Yan’s writing was never as brilliant again.
Given a thousand nights,
Can you master even a single word?
Or a dream, a tool, a brain?
Open roads, discover ways,
Flow down a stream, slash at ignorance
With ink and a scrap of paper from a poet’s bag.
Do you ever recall that demons are easy,
But dogs are difficult, even if you have the knack?
Rummage among icons and avatars
Of old gods and vibrant titans too long
And in another life you might be little more
Than a short brushstroke, part of a tall tale half-remembered
For the object lesson of a daydreamer on a distant world,
Caught somewhere between a shadow of Sisyphus
And the chuckling gods of young Jiang Yan,
Or a sandwich for hobos on a lonely night far, far from Antares.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem