In English, a bridge almost always means connection.
It’s the thing that links two shores, the symbol of friendship, the metaphor for reconciliation.
But in Classical Chinese poetry, a bridge is often something else entirely. It’s the space between two people. The thing you must cross when leaving. The reminder that you and I now stand on opposite banks, with the possibility that we may never meet again.
That’s the kind of gap no dictionary can prepare you for.
If I translate your poem without catching that shift in meaning, I might make a catastrophic error:
You meant goodbye, but I’ve told your reader we’ll always be connected.
It’s not just the wrong image — it’s the wrong relationship.
And once that happens, trust is hard to repair.
Because translation, at its heart, isn’t about converting words from one language into another. It’s about listening for the world behind those words — the assumptions, associations, and histories that shape them.
A bridge is never just a bridge.
And “connection” isn’t always the same as “together.”
When we get it right, translation can preserve the truth of your meaning, even across centuries and cultures.
When we get it wrong, it’s not just a linguistic slip — it’s a breach. One that could have been avoided if we were truly hearing each other.
©2025 Shelly Bryant
Share this post