Scarborough Fair

The original Chinese is written by Scavenger, which can be read HERE. I don't think my translation does justice to his delicate and beautiful description of the sad story. I just couldn't help translating it into Engilsh.


Before I broke into pieces, I was in love with a girl.
I won't say silly words like each girl is different in her own sweet way,
for I had never known any other girl before her.
or rather, had never GENUINELY known any.
We have discussed this many times.
Even now, I can still feel in her young heart, deep down,
that my self is still there.
Her heart is warm.
Apart from that, I can't tell you more.

When dusk was falling, that girl would cook a wok of tasty Russian soup.
To do that, she would rise early in the morning and
climb over the mountains and valleys all the way to Scarborough Fair.
Her shoes and socks were soaked in dew
must have been uncomfortable, wasn't it?
But she still carried a delicate smile on her face and walked through the fair
picked out the suitable ingredients, whose names I couldn't tell,
nor their distinctive colours and scents.
But I stood by her quietly afterwards, listening to the things
she described to me one by one and that--
that black little cat hiding in the shop.
She asked me, with pushiness, to find
that kind of black little cat for her.

I pulled at her hair, and said "Don't worry."
Then I started on my cause to look for the cat she wanted.
I had no idea that I could have walked for so long.
News came from the other side that she dropped many tears
into the soup that had already become cold.
She sewed winter clothes in the hope of my return
but the needle pricked her fingers.
I also heard that they burried us in the mountain of Scarborough
because when we were in love we had dated
at the mountain foot in the early morning.
We quickly walked up to the top.
Her face was redened and she gasped
as she pinned a little flower onto my collar.

You probably don't know that we still meet in the morning
only we are never able to come down the mountain together
I have a messy memory but I remember in my descent
I've seen numerous cats, cats of all colours and ages
but never did I find a black little cat.

Trickitty Tracy

*A Poem for Jiang Xiaomao (Tracy)

I saw that cat sitting on the wall every morning
while I was carrying the crazy stone on my way to work

I broke down one day and threw it off my shoulder
I said hi to the cat and she greeted me with a Chesire grin

A trick? I thought, gaping
at the empty space which had been filled by a cat

"No, Trickitty"
A small voice broke into my ear

A trick-kitty?
Like an appiration, she was sitting on my right shoulder

"I'm Schrodinger's cat with ever-changing appearances
and an ever-lasting spirit"

What's your name? I asked
with my head turning to the right

But there was nothing, not even
a cat paw's mark left

A trickitty? I murmured
wondering whether it was me who'd been tricked

"No, Tracy" A small voice rose again
and climbed into my left ear

Tracy Cat? I turned my head to the left
trying to catch the source of the voice

A furry tail flashed in front of my eyes
before I could follow its trace

There she was, on the wall again stretching her legs and
arching her back as all cats do after a sweet nap

She squinted at me against the sun and
with a "Meow" she jumped off the wall

I looked down at the heavy stone, not knowing how to continue
the ever-lasting routine with an ever-changing heart