◎ 丽姨的故事等三首写译 (阅读2457次)|
The Story of Aunt Lee
The room is a big hollow.
Months and years burnished some grey bricks
white, and some glimmering black.
Crumbs of clay quietly drop, time
Erects the solidity of the walls’ enclosure.
The empty room is filled with floating auras
Sunlight emblazing the lattice window
Children discard the play with the shadows
Run out of room, to play on the plaza.
Hopscotch, seek-and-hide, rubber-band skipping
Grasses green then yellow, the sugar-figures blowing man
replaces the woman who sold balloons, colorful wheels of
pinwheel turning on and on. Dandelions fly apart to the azure.
The strobilus of the phoenix trees cracked, pollens draw
vanishing sound traces in the golden sky. Wind blowing
through the lanes, sands rush into the eyes before the dusk.
Boys and girls in adolescent back up, look at each other
strange and familiar.
Lanes disappeared in the plaza
The plaza stretches out the roads
The young girl drops down the game and stands
Outside the circle of square, looking around and far
The sun is setting, evening glow stacked up
an iridescent hallucination castle.
Twilight in dense color waits with patience.
Once he waited me with his bicycle outside the town
He carried me with my girl friend, I, sat on the crossbar
His sister was a doctor. I went to visit his home
Only his mother there, I blushed, not knowing what to say.
He held tickets for a movie, smudged machine oil still on the hands
I asked was that everyone had a ticket? He lowered his head.
To be loved in the youth is beautiful, isn’t it?
At that time, he is the one I must have liked
We have had good times, now we are getting old
For months we would not have sex
But how he looked at that woman! His voice!
How could it be completely different?
He is a nice man.
Black out now, it’s still early till he comes back from Mah-jongg
Aunt Lee lies down in her silent night of twenty years.
The wind puffs away human’s whisper, only night stays
The plaza naked under the starlight
Tinkling, jingling, broken beads rolling down
Black pupils of the dark lanes exchange no words
Roads gleamingly loom like the patterns of the palm
The children in dreams stretch muscles and bones
Will wake up, build rooms, and murmur to oneself.
The Afterglow Entering Again the Deep Woods
Tinkling, tinkling, the piggy bank shakes with tinkles.
A coin drops, springs up
A silver arc of the frozen fish
The sound breaks the dawn, brings in the morning glory.
Clicking, clicking, the tricycles rolls over the watered flagstone lanes,
Morning light sets on the crown of the old honey locust trees, and blue-grey eaves.
A little waiter rubs his eyes and yawns, and lights the stove.
Birdcages hung onto the branches, women come back from the morning fair.
Days are like the paper boat in the basin,
There’s no need to weigh the anchor, people set sail in a small water area.
Visitors crowd to the narrow lanes, jade-colored flagstones basked under the sunlight,
Strings of crying from the waiters hooked up the simplest joy out of the customers.
A day up in the sky is usual but never contents with the similarity.
Mighty blue, a few sketches of clouds inked out, or later piled up,
Sunbeams thrust their swords, rains is driving from the mountain, cicadas quiet,
Crickets stop the chorus, winds from afar turn the wide polar leaves in concordance.
Lovers rest on the histories of legends and anecdotes,
Mutually respect with decorum, intimately pull and push like waves,
Or empty handed, watching the hearts withering and throbbing.
Who can love your partner, before you love your neighbors?
We talk about villages, our country that is disappearing with our elders.
How many pictures we have painted in our memories? Dreams of the childhood
How many of them still lead our present? And the murmurs of the sea,
We have been listening for so long. Each of us sinks into the meditation.
The Sunset Prayer Call sounded, clamour of lights turns dumb
Before the obscure darkness of the Mosque in the back-lane.
Men with sweats hurry up to the prayer hall to do salāt.
Visitors gone, the court in the temple returns to its tranquility.
Bugs unknown crawl over the moon-paint on the stone stele,
Autumn roses send off aroma through inking trees’ shades.
A man walked out from the prayer hall talks to the boy waiting on a stone seat.
Men listening to a call, and deliver a day’s noise.
In the depth of the night a cactus lifts up a white flower secretly,
On the rain-washed low wall snails stick out their eyes and aerials.
Nobody will change one’s elements, love is a long gaze.
The returning spiritual light will pierce through the dense jungle of the days.
Bird Singing in the Empty Mountain
The melody is vanishing into where sunlight meets the shade,
The erhu player wipes the strings, encases the instrument,
and sit down to chat. A couple quietly pick off the shell of lima beans.
A young man is lying on the bench with his eyes wide-opened to the sky.
The gnomon of the sundial moves from the underside of the plate to the North, ( )
Sunlight pulled from the heaven's eyes to the feet of the earth, lucent and transpiring.
Cicadas fold their songs, their wings and fall down.
Lichen under the bushes greened by last night's rain.
An old woman dragging her slippers tita tita walks inside the veined corridor,
A lion-like face of an Alzheimer outfaces these people’s melancholy.
No one dares to ward off the stare, no one utters a word.
A few sparrows bump into the sunlight--
Not knowing it is the time of autumn,
Neither the life nor the death of themselves or others.
A little girl sings and claps her hands:
“You clap one, I clap two, and games is what a girl should do.”