EVEN A HEAVY SNOW IS ONLY A BLUFF by Li Hao

EVEN A HEAVY SNOW IS ONLY A BLUFF 

by Li Hao

Some things have no real way

to sustain themselves, such as snow

in the presence of a magnificent turning,

and faced with spring fevers, one dream after another,

while thoughts meander and words fail to make real,

like an empty-headed slippery mudfish

that has left no tracks at all.

The big snow does not happen; it's only another bluff.

Not all snow lovers are shy

in their laughter, but can hide rapiers

beneath a whitewashed hilt,

but I am sentimentally irrational,

not believing in self-fulfilling prophesies,

neither in snow, as it actually serves to cover up the dirt.

In our world, not one snowflake is pure.

There is no need for a big show of force;

if a snowflake is picked out of a snow berm,

most likely it would have had a tearful past,

some sorrow hidden under its beauty.

Great roads may point towards heaven,

but gullies deliberately descend below.

Fresh flowers are no longer into fame and fortune,

unenvious of a fertile soiled ground.

There is no daylight between loud crowing and angry barks.

Things that appear bright are actually stained.

Believe your intuition.

The north wind that you endure each year

has a brutal past.

It whistles a merry tune,

which doesn't necessarily speak its mind.

It complains not, holds no grudges,

and in time will be replaced by the east wind.

Someday the snowflakes will turn to muddy water.

No matter how loud it howls, wails,

and divides, the big heavy snow is, for you and me,

by far winter's best pastime.