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◎ 1995,从北到南 (阅读2724次)





旅行是为了什么?
可以携带什么?放下什么?

有数年,不曾见过候鸟,
麻雀和鸽子,令人忘却翅膀的意义。

从秋天漫到春天的灰雾,
吞没了一个个日子,窒息了一个个灵魂。

灰沉的年代,哑默着,
进入中年的父母,疲惫而愤怒。

他们鞭策儿女,不知方向,
面对怯怯捧来的温情,不行于色。

在杂乱而渐渐同一的脚步的鼓点中,
在铁轨、汽笛的延伸中激动起来:

还不明白故乡和生活的行者,
你的旅行能到达哪里?

千年的黄土依然浑厚而寡言,
几株秃树半掩着百年乡村的凄凉。

哐当——哐——哐——哐——哐——
高一声低一声的行进乐渐渐拉直——

干涸的小渠边,一头黄牛
抬起两汪空洞的水望着飞驰过的列车。

月牙踮脚在小山岗上,北斗星指向
地平线下的黑暗,遗忘开始进入旅程。

一簇灯火,一次轻轻的惊醒,
又一个小站:赤水、罗敷、新野、渑池,

对面的老教授,合上书本,装好眼镜,
自语:“九曲黄河万里沙,古来如此!”

灯熄了。千人同眠在奔驰的节奏中,
梦返往日,或歇足此夜,稍息,一同跌进明天。

清晨,淡淡的绿色映到白雾未褪的窗上,
苗条的小树挂起早春,一群学童跑过桥下。

将过河南。鸡公山阻断了平原和黄土,
没有树木的大山,力勾线条,崛起内质,

人啊,你有多少相似的质地?
岩石以亙古的冷峻承托雪的轻盈。

旅人开始侧身穿梭,说话,坐满了窗边。
一方方水塘,一块块稻田,微雨,田间绿得发青。

铁路汇集、交错,又一个圆点划分大地。
荒草,垃圾,鄙陋密集的小楼,武汉——

半江浊黄半江青绿,
北方之水至此为南。

黄鹤楼,宝通寺,留下的只有空名,
无从印证,无处着落思古之意。

大桥下,自行车匆忙,渔者闲适,
汽笛的悠然打断陌生的声流。

港口的大钟,照旧敲响殖民时代的石墙、
铁栏、窄窗,一个旅人抬起腕表。



自楚入湘,水云相侵。
一艘豆荚小船飘过湖,飘过江。

二月的疏星,在一明一暗的波纹上点跳。
一只倦鸟,落在船篷,埋首翅羽。

浪摇着身,水漫进梦,
一把麦粒在手心不停地搓呀搓——

爸爸拿着一张照片,鼻尖冒着汗:
你要去见见他,这是一个博士。

爸爸,你快乐吗?
他坐在一个世纪的暗影中,

那灰影中胖乎乎热乎乎的身影说:
太重了,太久了。生活就是责任。

风卷雪,雪扑黄叶,漫天遍野。一个男孩说:
你看着北极星的时候,我在看南十字星。

一只手抓住手腕,要摆脱却不能动弹。
一个朋友打来长途:我要去流浪了。

一代人跨海而去,我的兄长们,
匆忙的没能装起一捧故土。

午后醒来,合起桌上厚厚的唐诗辞典,
走上山间公路,沿路溪水依旧含着玉色。

字里山色尽在眼前。村舍,只是土色与麦秸黄,
人的俭素,让千年的山川依然静好。

“过岳阳楼了!”一阵喧嚣,翻一个身,
哨声响起,铁轨再次振动,没入广袤的黑暗。

再次醒来,已是黄昏。列车上所有的窗户都敞开,
窗外,油菜花开到云脚,我们奔驰过花香的大地。

男人穿着花内裤在车厢内穿行,孩子在哭闹。
红土地上,背着背篓,带着斗笠的女人在劳作。

一座座古老的石堤横跨稻田,水牛站在大地中央
没有牧童,没有芦笙,凤尾竹摆动漓江水色。

边境小镇,踩着拖鞋骑着苏式摩托的男子
满街搭载游客,乞讨的孩子接过糖果笑了。

眼睛美丽的女子,守着两大竹匾带水的鲜花,
奇异之美的异乡,散发着生计奔忙的亲切。

雨季将至。空气浸透了湿意,却还没连坠成一天水。
异乡的指尖,轻柔地抚按,一下,又一下。



我永远在海岸上行走
在沙与泡沫之间
高潮将抹去我的足印
风会吹走泡沫
但海和岸将
永存

--纪伯伦

海,是《暴风雨》的阴沉咆哮精灵飞舞?
还是白帆划过金铺银镶永恒漾动的蓝绸?

内陆高原的孩子放眼碧空到天弧弯入一抹烟灰,
追随群山奔泻的笔触让想象中的大海充塞心胸。

而呈现在面前的大海一片灰白,不时闪出铁器
冷锐的黑光,上面,是另一种炫目刺痛的浅灰。

海面,点点渔船和近岸的人声随浪涌起淹没,
银滩上,沙洞、海草、壳贝顷刻间不知何处。

沿着沙滩走出人声,细沙与水在脚趾间揉进散出,
涛声与风声掠过耳边这空茫茫只我一人穿行落泪。

一排旧渔船弃置在沙滩,船底有浅浅的海水和海草,
白球鞋挂在船头,我坐在船沿看海:

只见广瀚和一道弧线没入虚无,
那一刻,突然无力而虚弱——

这表面的大海,它巨大灰色的水体,
难以想象、探测、象征,正如包围我的虚空。

谁在沙滩上留下一座小小的斯芬尼克斯沙像,
面朝大海提问,一个孩子?一个人?某个人。

海整个开始倾斜,浪潮涌来拽着渔船又放手,
四点钟的太阳要从浪峰掀起的天空跌下谷底。

沿着千万朵白花幻生幻灭的曲线走去,
没有足迹留下,我整个的重量持续消失。

“嗨——去海里吧,来吧,看海去!”
一个男孩站在一艘小船上呼唤我——

那么美的黑眼睛,他的裸胸前挂着银色十字架,
身后站着一个老渔夫,用桨撑着岸,向我招手。

老人把我们摇进大海。他围着围巾,蓝罩衣里
套着毛衣和秋衣,四季的衣服都在身上。

海风的盐刀蚀刻了他脸上每块皮肤
一浪涌起,他现出凶狠咬牙怒击大海

转过头来,却笑着对我比划。男孩开始唱歌,
一丝忧伤和单纯的茫然,突然又呼喊大笑。

我们三个,还有幸福,在这窄小的船上,
三个陌生人,一同在这世界轻轻摇晃。


1995, from the North to the South



Why do we travel?
What can we carry? What shall we leave?

For years, we haven’t seen the migrating birds,
Sparrows and pigeons, fooled us to forget the meaning of wings.

Ashy fogs pervading from the spring to the autumn,
Drown a day after another, suffocated souls one by one.

An age somber and mute in silence,
Parents stepped into their middle age, jaded and raged.

They were spurring on their children, without directions,
Facing timidly presented caring by the children, no affection shown.

Beats of the steps cluttering, then merged into synchronized movements.
Travelers excited, with the stretching of rails and sirens.

Where could you reach?
The walker who has not learned about home and life?

The Loess Plateau of thousand years is still thick and taciturn,
Some balding trees half-concealed the desolation of old villages.

Click—clang, clank—clank—clank—clank—
In high and low notes, the marching song straightened forward.

Besides a dried up little ditch, an ox
Held two hollows of water watching the dashing train.

The crescent moon tiptoed on a hill, the Big Dipper pointed to
the darkness under the horizon, and forgetting entered into the journey.

A cluster of lights, a little awaking,
Another old small stop: Redwater, Maiden Luo, Newfield, Mian Pool.

An aged professor on the opposite bed closed his book, encased his glasses and murmured:
“Nine curves of the Yellow River has thousands miles of sand, it is so in the ancient time.”

Light extinguished. Thousands people slept together in the running rhythm,
Some went back to yesterdays, some in peace, soon all would fall into tomorrow.

Dawn came, light green mirrored on the white-foggy windows,
Slim trees hung up the spring early, a flock of school-going kids ran under a bridge.

Out of Henan province, The Cock Mountain blocked the plain and loess,
A mountain without woods, drew the outlines with strength, and uplifted its essence.

Ah, Human, how much similar texture do you have?
Rocks buoyed up the lightness of snow with their archaic severity.

Travelers began to side across, talk, and sit under the windows.
Patches of ponds, plates of rice fields, drizzling, earth greened to blue.

Railways converged, crossed, another initial point to divide the land.
Weeds, wastes, shabby low buildings compacted densely, here is Wuhan

Muddy peru of Yellow River and agile turquoise of Yangtze River meet here,
The waters from the North would journey to the South hereafter.

Tower of Yellow Crane, Bao Tong Temple, saved only the names,
No traces to verify their ancient fame, and nowhere to place admiring.

Under the Yangtze Rvier Bridge, bicycles in hurry, fishers in leisure,
Long whistling of sirens broke the strange flux of noises.

The big bell in the port, still stroke the colonial stone walls,
iron railings, and narrow windows. A traveler raised his wristwatch.



From Chu Land into Three Xiang Region, waters and clouds
invading each other, a bean-like boat floated over the lakes and rivers.

Lonely stars of the February, pony-jumped between dark and light of undulating moiré.
A tired bird, alighted on the sail, hid its head in the wings.

Waves rocking the body, water flooding the dream,
A fistful of grains, rubbed on and on in the hand.

Daddy held a photo, beads of sweats on his nose:
“You must go to date him, he is a Doctor.”

Dad, were you happy?
He sat in the gloomy shadow of a century,

the stout and warm form in the grey shade murmured:
“It has been too long, too heavy. Life is the responsibility.”

Blast curled up snow, snowflakes flapped yellow leaves. A boy said:
“When you look at the North Star, I will watch the Southern Cross.”

A hand seized a wrist, she couldn’t move, couldn’t shake off.
A friend made a long-distance call: “I want to be a bum.”

A generation crossed the sea, my elder-brothers, my captains,
away in such a haste, unable to take a handful of soil from the homeland.

Woke up in the afternoon, I shut down the heavy book of Tang dynasty poems,
walked to the mountain road, where streams along the road still in jade color.

Colors of mountain told by words opened to the eyes. Cottages in wheat-yellow,
simple lives of locals kept the nature in its serenity and beauty over centuries.

“We are passing the Yueyang Tower!” a burst of noises, people turned over,
a whistle blow, the rails concussed again, and all sank into the vast darkness.

Awaken again, dusk already. All the windows on the train opened, outside,
cole flowers blossomed to the feet of the clouds, we ran through the fragrant earth.

Men walked in the corridor on their bright-patterned underpants, kids were crying,
Women with pack-baskets and bamboo hats labored on the red earth.

Old stone levees bestride over the rice fields, buffalos stand on the heart of the earth,
No buffalo boys, no reed melodies, Phoenix-tail bamboos flirted with emerald Lijiang River.

In the little border town, men on slippers drove the Soviet-made motors,
touting for the visitors, begging kids smiled after having some candies.

Girls with beautiful eyes, sat with two big flat baskets full of watery flowers,
A foreign land with exotic beauty, sent forth the warmness of bread-earning struggles.

Rainy season would arrive. The air was damp, but the sky had not watered yet.
The fingertip of this remote land, gently touched and pressed me, once, and again.



I AM FOREVER walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my footprints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain
Forever.

--Kahlil Gibran

The sea, is it the dark, the roar, the Ariel’s dancing spirit of The Tempest?
Or a white sail slides over eternal wobbling blue velvet inlayed golden and silver?

The inland child set eyes to the azure where the celestial arc dip into smoky grey,
Followed the brushwork of mountains’ rushing to imagine the sea.

But the sea before the eyes was a sheet of grey, flashed out black light from beneath,
the sharp and the cold of iron. To the above, It’s another dazzling, stinging light grey.

Dots of boats on the sea and sounds on the shore together rose and fell with tides,
On the silver beach, sand holes, seaweeds, and seashells were nowhere in a blink.

Walking off along the tideland, fine sand grains and water ran in and out the toes,
Sound of waves and wind sweep the ears while I am alone weeping in the emptiness.

Rows of aged boats discarded on the beach, shallow bilge and seaweeds forgot there,
Hung my white sneakers on the bow, I sat down on the gunwale to look at the sea:

The enormous body slides into the Nihility with a carefree glee,
In the moment, I was overwhelmed with a sudden asthenia—

This superficial sea, its massive water substance,
inconceptualable, unexplorable, unsymbolizable as the dullness enveloped me.

Who left a small sand-statue of Sphinx on the beach,
facing the sea questioning, a child? a man? some human.

The whole body of the sea tilted, tides pulled the boats and let them go,
The sun of the four o’clock fell from the surging sky to the bottom of waves.

Walking along the line where thousands white blossoms burst and disillusioned,
No footprints existed for long, my whole weight was continually disappearing.

“Hey, go to the sea, come on, let’s go to see the sea!”
A boy was calling me on a small boat.

What beautiful black eyes! He hung a silver cross on his bare chest,
Behind him, an old fisherman propped the boat with an oar and waved to me.

He rowed us into the sea. His neck wrapped with a shawl,
inside the dark blue coat were sweaters and shirt, four seasons’ clothes.

The salty knives of the sea wind etched every inches of his face,
But when the billows smashing near, he gnashed and hit the sea fiercely.

Turned his head, he smiled and gestured to me. The boy began to sing,
with a gleam of sadness and innocence, but in a second he yelled and laughed.

We three, and the happiness, in this tiny and narrow boat,
Three strangers, were gently rocking in this world.


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