韩怡丹，笔名绿音。生于中国福建。著有诗集《临风而立》（1993）、《绿音诗选》（2004，中英双语）和《静静地飞翔》（2008）。主编《诗天空当代华语诗选，2005-2006》双语版（2007）和《诗天空当代美国诗选，2005-2008》双语版 （2009），并参与编著五本中国古诗文评点译析导读书籍。她是《诗天空》（Poetry Sky）双语季刊创始人及主编。其中英文诗散见于《诗刊》《创世纪》《普罗维登斯日报》《科罗拉多评论》等。她现居美国罗德岛州普罗维登斯。

Yidan Han is the author of three books of poetry, including Standing against the Wind (1993), Selected Poems of Green Voice (2004, bilingual), and Flying in Silence (2008). She is the editor of The PoetrySky Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Poetry, 2005-2006 (2007), The PoetrySky Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry 2005-2008 (2009), and a coauthor of five academic books that explore classical Chinese poetry. Her Chinese and English poems have appeared in various literary journals and anthologies in China, United States and other countries, including The Providence Journal, Colorado Review, and Shi Kan. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Poetry Sky. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

快乐

Pleasure

很小很小的鸟儿
眨眼间   已在
我眼前
划出了一根
不规则的曲线

仿佛踩着空气
弹跳

她的足下
布满音符

音乐戛然止于
一段
秋天的枯枝
			

A very tiny bird
swiftly
lines out
a fitful curve

as if it bounces
over the air

Notes scattered 
beneath her feet

until the music 
stops
on a deadwood
of autumn.
			

探望一棵树

Visiting a Tree

从我的窗口
可看见一棵树的顶端
其叶子在一片灰屋顶上方
正渐渐变红

午后两点十分
外面的风声依然隐约作响
而阳光正好
我披上我的外套

去看望街角的
一棵树

好像是去赴一个约会
转过街角
她独自站在街头

像一团巨大的火焰在燃烧
红，黄，绿色的火焰
而周围的树都还是绿的

一阵秋风来
她举起她那深褐色的千手
随意地在草地上写下诗句

我俯下身
轻轻地拾起一些叶子

又一阵风吹来
一些叶子在风中翻滚
停留在生锈的篱笆边

我回到家
在灯下细看它们的脉络
不知那是什么诗句
我触摸着它们
仿佛触摸着某种神秘
			

From one of my windows
I can see the top of a tree,
whose foliage is turning red
above the top of a grey roof.

It's 2:10 in the afternoon.
The wind still rustling.
And the sunshine not bad.
I put on my sweater and walk out

to visit the tree at 
the corner of the street.

As if going to date a friend,
when I turn at the corner,
she is right there, standing on the roadside
by herself。

She is like a huge flame burning in
red, yellow, green and other colors.
while other trees are still green.
When a gust of wind comes,
she moves her countless branches
to write verses on the grass.

I bend over, 
gently picking some of the leaves

While another gust of wind comes,
some leaves are turning over and over
to the edge of the rusted fence.

I take them home.
Under the lamp I view their veins and textures,
not understanding the verses on them.
I touch them, as if touching a mystery.