The Terminal by Ruofan Wang
Fagged wheels roll on the gravelly road
In the alluring and dreaming afterglow
“Where are we heading to?”
We stop by the side,
I raise my eyes.
The sun steals the wine
someone put on the top of their roof,
suddenly gets drunk and,
blushes in fever.
For another while,
flirts leisurely with the timid clouds
and dashes into the blazing ruby.
We go.
We stop beside the field,
The mountains stand upright,
cutting out their contour with charcoal
out of the dizzy sky.
They look angular and penetrating,
But the tenderness still spills over
every piece of granite and clover.
Sunlight turns the running water into blood.
Streams are veins
that carry gentleness into plains
into every petal of the daisy bush.
We go.
We stop by the sea of flowers.
The lavender swayed in the breeze,
dancing with the tipsy sky and trees,
fiddling with dewdrops they cupped
on branches and leaves.
Flowers give hue to the air,
like perfume sprinkles everywhere.
Even our body seems to be stained with color.
We inebriate in the aroma and slowly
we go.
The wheels still roll,
Going to and fro
and I ask again:
“Where are we heading to?”
The cloud, the sky?
the distant mountain, the streams?
the bush, the fragrance?
Perhaps, we never think of
where we should go and where we should stop.
Whenever it stops,
it is the terminal.