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.