瓦兰，原名杨桥。1965年生于江苏省。1979年开始写诗。1983年辞职专业写诗。 1984年出版第一本诗集。1993年出版诗集《风居》（南京大学出版社）；2002年出版《瓦兰诗集》（花城出版社）；2003年出版《瓦兰诗集》四卷本（青海人民出版社）。

Walan, orignally named Yang Qiao, was born in 1965 in Jiangsu Province. He started writing poetry in 1979, and in 1983 he quit his job to work on poetry full time. He published his first poem collection in 1984. In 1993 and 2002, he published Live in Wind (Nanjing University Press) and Walan’s Poem Collection (Huacheng Press). In 2003, He published the 4-volume Walan’s Collected Poems (Qinghai People's Press).

夜间观察

Night Observations

谁在深夜丈量黑暗
的面积？天使？猫头鹰？精神病患者？
土地测量员？失眠的诗人？失去的圣贤

森林高山深渊
鹅突然飞向天空

人习惯了在暴雨下的睡眠
闪电在平原的腹部

留下伤疤，黑暗中的河流让你感到安全

Who in deep night measures the area of darkness
An angel? An Owl? A schizophrenic patient? 
Surveyor? Insomniac? Poet? Departed sage

Forest, high mountain, abyss
A goose rises skyward in sudden flight

People get used to sleeping under storms
Lightning over the torso of a plain

Leaves scars, a river of darkness
your anchor? your security?

我和神的哀歌

Requiem for Me and God

我亲手烧掉全部候鸟的来信
并看见秋天在刀尖上站了一个世纪

大地毁坏自己的脸之后又毁坏自己的心脏
世上的妇女纷纷在雪花里安家

她们落下时是一个意外
隐蔽在女人心里的女人

永远疼痛并飘摇

今夜我暗访大地的全部过程
听见了豹与少女的秘密

看见春天出生的人挤满天空的医院

我观察这个时代的飘雪
心就像石头一样沉默

我弯腰捡起一块神圣的瓦片
用衣袖擦亮后看人类在岩石上飞奔

一群黑衣修女像音乐涌向他乡
另一群是罕见的道士和僧侣

我诚实地看着流逝的万物
等待飘雪向漫天飞舞的疾病前来找我

这是一个肤浅的年代
没有弃儿沿着祖父的铁轨向前爬行

这是一个吞噬的日子
机器损坏了人类的大脑

大地上发生的一切令人伤心
我在音乐中以泪洗面

不是我有罪
而是我孤独

With my own hands I burned all letters from migratory birds
And I watched autumn standing for a century on the tip of a knife

After the good earth disfigured its face, then it ruined its own heart
Women of our time are flurrying to make their homes in snowflakes

Their fall to earth is unexpected
The woman hiding in the heart of a woman

Is forever suffering hurt and also floating

This night my secret survey of the good earth, the whole process
Hears the secret between a young woman and a panther

Sees people born in springtime crowding the hospital of the sky

I observe the floating snow of this era
My heart as silent as a stone

I bend my waist to pick up a fragment of holy tile
After rubbing it with my sleeve, I see human traces streak across boulders

A group of black-robed nuns stream like music toward other towns
Another group of monks and hermits, almost never seen

I wait and watch these evanescent objects
Until snowfall comes looking for me, like a skyful of fluttering disease

This is a superficial age
Abandoned infants do not crawl along the rails of their grandfathers

This age is ravenous to swallow everything
Machines damage the brain cells of human beings

What has happened on the good earth is a wound in people's hearts
Within music, I use tears to wash my face

This is not a matter of my sins
It is my solitude