给静思者

静思者都是孩子吗?
他们在风中追逐着铃声,睏了,就怀抱着希望入眠。
梦中的星光,和远在天边等待着人们的星光,并没有区别。

静思者都是孩子。
他们寻找这座城市中敞开门户的房间,房间里的灯始终点亮着,没有人留 意到他们休息过的痕迹。
夜色像在宣纸上化开的浓墨,露珠正在酝酿着清晨清凉的祝福。
人们开始卸下沉重的行囊,并不担心自己接下来将走向何方。

在无限循环的香草园中,薄荷散发着清香。静思者都是孩子吧,始终陪伴 着他们的是星空、大地和人们生活着的消息。

Are those who are contemplative all children?
They race with the winds in pursuit of a bell’s chime.
When their energies are spent, they drift off to sleep, with hope in their embrace.
To them, there is no difference between the stars in their dreams and those in the night sky, the twinkling lights patiently anticipating human presence.

The contemplative ones are indeed children.
They search for a room with an open door within this city.
In that room, the lamp is always lit.
If there are traces of sleep in their eyes, no one notices them.
Night descends like thick, dark ink permeating paper.
As dewdrops appear, they bring tidings of a refreshing dawn.
People begin laying down their heavy luggage, no longer fretting which direction they will be taking next.

The light fragrance of mint fills the infinitely regenerative herb garden.
The contemplative ones must be children then.
They will always have, for company, the night sky, the earth and glimpses into the lives of others.