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诗人都在过自己的节日，
我在堆满诗歌的办公桌上，
把烟头塞满烟缸，把烟丝排成行，
一行一行地数落自己。
数到第五行的时候，被迫打住，
刚更换的靠椅格外生硬。
窗台看出去的街上，堵得一塌糊涂，
我和城市同时胸闷、感到心慌，
我们都不愿意声张。
粽子、黄酒以及府南河上的热闹，
与我们没有关系。还是那个城市，
我在等待另一个城市的电话。尽量保持
节前的那种安静。端午节应该肃穆，
一个诗人的忌日，所有的人却快乐无比。
Each poet is celebrating his own holiday
Poems pile up on my desk
I try to stuff all cigarette ends into the ashtray
Arrange the cut tobacco into lines
I check each line, like checking myself
When I reach the fifth line, I get stuck
The new hard chair hurts my back
Outside the window, the street is jammed as hell
My city and I are experiencing shortness of breath
But we make no complaints
Zongzi, yellow wine, and the crowd over the Jinjiang River
Have nothing to do with us. The city is still that city
And I am still myself
Waiting for a call from another city
I try to keep the calmness that I had before the festival
The Dragon Boat Festival should be solemn
Because it is the anniversary of the death of a poet
But why, everybody is so happy?