Beijing’s Child points at the white clouds flying, veils in the somber sky, to the moon under the yielding tree’s red lantern, he is absent-mindedly playing with his brown braids. He pictures himself abroad, by other long shores turning the pages of his dear illustrated book when a fired fish jumps up to the skies clad in its rainbow scales, glistering. Under the yielding tree red lantern

Beijing’s Child rubs the green ginkgo Although the snow, winter’s daughter plucks the feather leaves of her silvery coat....
Was it the wind, messenger of the west that brought the Biloba bird until Ta? Under the yielding tree red lantern

He thinks about it sprouting, seed of the past. The Child whose name means pagoda lives over the gates of the shining sun chanting to the elements songs and lullabies,
Under the yielding tree red lantern.

And when Earth vibrates under the storms when the frightened men rise their damped eyes the child wraps his body with the veil of the stars I hear by the mounts his voice and his augurs. But the tree was cut down and cannot offer its sweet sap anymore the red gleam has faded long ago of the marooned torn by time book only one thing remains, and it is a dream.

Because, at bedtime, as the world is sound asleep the child pours a golden powder to the souls. Stay awake at night because the Child of Beijing will enchant you until your morning!

Written in French in Beijing, October 20, 2011. Translated on May 9, 2014 Lyon, France