◎ 1995，从北到南 (阅读2757次)|
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.
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
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.