Sisha, Our Home by Ko Yu An

Braving a wild wind and torrential rain,
Conquering the angry, roaring waves,
A fishing team comes to bleak, deserted Sisha
And pitches three-cornered tents there.

Brawny, muscular young fellows,
Old salts with faces weathered by wind and frost,
Back from fishing like to sit together
To talk of their dear ones and homes.

Only the team-leader who sits beside them,
Puffing in silence at his pipe till it sizzles,
Says quietly, “Fishermen sail rivers and seas,
Wherever they cast their net, there their home is.”

The others let his words pass unnoticed,
And the team-leader listens with a smile to their talk;
One day a convoy of ships comes from the mainland,
In the prow stands the team-leader’s wife, a child in her arms.

So, soon after the baby is born,
The team-leader moves his whole family to the island.
A simple rucksack, a yellow bamboo basket,
Packed with the songs and scent of the flowers of home.

At night, when they crowd into the team-leader’s home,
All are merry as at New Year;
Many pairs of arms dandle the child,
They laugh in its face and sing.

This, the first child come to Sisha,
Is fair-skinned, plump and bonny,
With black hair like dusky clouds,
Eyes like two stars that have fallen into the sea.

This, the first child come to Sisha,
Look how he laughs, like spring flowers blossoming!
He wants to take the whole of life in his arms,
Utterly untouched by the storms of the South Sea.

They give him golden plexaura, rosy coral;
They pick a handful of gleaming conch shells for him;
Among all these treasures, the new generation
Will grow up on the islands of Sisha.

There is no more nostalgic talk of home,
They boast to the team-leader’s wife of Sisha’s wealth;
The team-leader smiles and says nothing; after a pipe
He takes them to mend boats and nets while the moon is bright.

When the next convoy comes to Sisha,
The men see their own people’s faces below the white sails;
They have come, the families of the fishermen,
Come to strike roots here and flourish like the coconut palm.

Red brick buildings are going up now on the island,
Cocks crow, pigs grunt, everywhere is bustle and joy;
The children play beneath the wood-oil trees,
The women sun bright clothes in every yard.

Under all the eaves there is singing,
Happy villages are growing on the Sisha islands;
Team-leader, as you stand smiling before the map,
What new plans are you turning over in your mind?

Translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang. Source: Chinese Literature Monthly, January 1, 1961.