酷我-北美枫

[高岸]

YUE-LU MOUNTAIN [1]



The waves of variation in the appearance of a woman
The paths where thousands of shoes treaded
Which go to the hidden places
The quiet and deserted riverbeds in a wavy leaf
The tree branches placed in the face
The carved marks of time


Ai-Wan Pavilion[2]


Are you silently speaking to yourself
Or to the unreal image of someone who passed away
Time has not modified your background
My shoes are fully stained with the dust of today
But the age of the wind is unknown


Wind
Emerges from a cave
With cold air of an old man
And stays in the red beams and posts
Pavilion, it is actually empty
The fragrant cars, the treasured horses and the flying pigeons
Sounds of people, hoofs and birds
Things that come always come
Things that go always go
Only the celestial being left a small trace
His soul is like thin paper
In green glazed antithetical couplet
It was repeatedly dyed red by sunset
Rinsed by heavy rain
Developed by flashed light


Wind is the witness


The white pigeon has slown away in the sunset glow
And will never return
The upturned eaves remain a fantasy of the pigeon


It’s cloth hangs in the tree branches
One of it’s hands
Stretches to a dead leaf
With the shape of a boat
Husky voice reads
A page of the blank book
Thrown away in the road
Wind returns and hides in the woods
In the dusk


All kinds of footsteps gone
The level ground paved with the blue flagstones
Is not loaded at this moment
A dark red maple leaf
Fell down it’s edge
The raging flames of the Fall
Has died in the mountain


This roaming palm
Stays in the edge of the pond
And fixedly gazes at the image in the water
The pond is full of hollowness and lonelyness


The dusk is silent
Which is like sea water
And floods up to the mountain
No place to escape


The dusk is detained in the edge of the woods
Here is empty and without the end


The grave in the woods
Is a symbol of the end
The standing tombstone
Is a substitute of a dead man
Words on the tombstone
Painted by the dim light of the night
This dead man has sank to the underground


A gully under the bridge
Sounds the song of the dripping water
In the rock
Spring water silently flows away
In the darkness


The whirled stone steps
Carry the fallen leaves and the dead branches
One step by one step
To go through to


Winding corridor as an abandoned guqin[3]
Is played by the fingers of the cold moon
And surrounded by the dim light of the night
The mild melody flows in the air


The feet of the moonlight are naked
They gracefully step through the wet lawn
And pass through the dark woods
Then get over the wall of the temple
Quietly open the door of the golden hall


The oil lamp is dim
It lights up emptiness above the round cushion
In the ground
The postures of worship are full of the dust
That man who performed the kowtow
Has thrown away the stone held in his arms
And returned to this world of noise
The opened Confucian classics in the windowsill
Got wet by the moonlight
The bright ripples spread in it
In the morning of spring in March
It is as light in color as water of the Fall
In the most days
But Confucian classics will never be finished
In reading and singing

Tune of a song is older than the rag
Chorus in each evening is
As grand as the golden hall
The evening is repeated like the sea tide
Which is unceasing in coming and leaving


Night is the oil of the lamp
It has been burning for a thousand years
It will never be dried up
Unless the wind puts out
The silent oil lamp in the hall


The road is marching forward to the top of the mountain


The Most quiet is that old star
Who lives in the top of the mountain
It is far away from the complex details
Under the mountain
And separates itself from this world
It is unafraid of the dark night
It gets bright by itself and
Died by itself
It is silent
When the dawn comes
It leaves quietly


Night passed the lights of dawn appearance
She erases the fogs and water in her head
And dresses in that light
She is listening again
To the noise of the sea
Of this world under her feet


The waves of the sea
Surge up the mountain once again




Note: [1] YUE LU MOUNTAIN is located in Changsha city in China
[2]Ai-Wan Pavilion is a famous pavilion in the valley of YUE LU MOUNTAIN
[3] Guqin: Chinese Pin-Yin, it means one kind of ancient music instrument

[[我还没有昵称]]

YUE-LU MOUNTAIN [1]



The waves of variation in the appearance of a woman
The paths where thousands of shoes treaded
Which go to the hidden places
The quiet and deserted riverbeds in a wavy leaf
The tree branches placed in the face
The carved marks of time


Ai-Wan Pavilion[2]


Are you silently speaking to yourself
Or to the unreal image of someone who passed away
Time has not modified your background
My shoes are fully stained with the dust of today
But the age of the wind is unknown


Wind
Emerges from a cave
With cold air of an old man
And stays in the red beams and posts
Pavilion, it is actually empty
The fragrant cars, the treasured horses and the flying pigeons
Sounds of people, hoofs and birds
Things that come always come
Things that go always go
Only the celestial being left a small trace
His soul is like thin paper
In green glazed antithetical couplet
It was repeatedly dyed red by sunset
Rinsed by heavy rain
Developed by flashed light


Wind is the witness


The white pigeon has slown away in the sunset glow
And will never return
The upturned eaves remain a fantasy of the pigeon


It’s cloth hangs in the tree branches
One of it’s hands
Stretches to a dead leaf
With the shape of a boat
Husky voice reads
A page of the blank book
Thrown away in the road
Wind returns and hides in the woods
In the dusk


All kinds of footsteps gone
The level ground paved with the blue flagstones
Is not loaded at this moment
A dark red maple leaf
Fell down it’s edge
The raging flames of the Fall
Has died in the mountain


This roaming palm
Stays in the edge of the pond
And fixedly gazes at the image in the water
The pond is full of hollowness and lonelyness


The dusk is silent
Which is like sea water
And floods up to the mountain
No place to escape


The dusk is detained in the edge of the woods
Here is empty and without the end


The grave in the woods
Is a symbol of the end
The standing tombstone
Is a substitute of a dead man
Words on the tombstone
Painted by the dim light of the night
This dead man has sank to the underground


A gully under the bridge
Sounds the song of the dripping water
In the rock
Spring water silently flows away
In the darkness


The whirled stone steps
Carry the fallen leaves and the dead branches
One step by one step
To go through to


Winding corridor as an abandoned guqin[3]
Is played by the fingers of the cold moon
And surrounded by the dim light of the night
The mild melody flows in the air


The feet of the moonlight are naked
They gracefully step through the wet lawn
And pass through the dark woods
Then get over the wall of the temple
Quietly open the door of the golden hall


The oil lamp is dim
It lights up emptiness above the round cushion
In the ground
The postures of worship are full of the dust
That man who performed the kowtow
Has thrown away the stone held in his arms
And returned to this world of noise
The opened Confucian classics in the windowsill
Got wet by the moonlight
The bright ripples spread in it
In the morning of spring in March
It is as light in color as water of the Fall
In the most days
But Confucian classics will never be finished
In reading and singing

Tune of a song is older than the rag
Chorus in each evening is
As grand as the golden hall
The evening is repeated like the sea tide
Which is unceasing in coming and leaving


Night is the oil of the lamp
It has been burning for a thousand years
It will never be dried up
Unless the wind puts out
The silent oil lamp in the hall


The road is marching forward to the top of the mountain


The Most quiet is that old star
Who lives in the top of the mountain
It is far away from the complex details
Under the mountain
And separates itself from this world
It is unafraid of the dark night
It gets bright by itself and
Died by itself
It is silent
When the dawn comes
It leaves quietly


Night passed the lights of dawn appearance
She erases the fogs and water in her head
And dresses in that light
She is listening again
To the noise of the sea
Of this world under her feet


The waves of the sea
Surge up the mountain once again




Note: [1] YUE LU MOUNTAIN is located in Changsha city in China
[2]Ai-Wan Pavilion is a famous pavilion in the valley of YUE LU MOUNTAIN
[3] Guqin: Chinese Pin-Yin, it means one kind of ancient music instrument

[高岸]

这首匆匆译出，只是大致译出了意思，十分粗糙，坦言即使多花时间我也没有这样的水平把它译好，若那位有时间帮忙纠正将不胜感谢。


女人容颜变化的波浪
被千百只鞋所踏通向隐蔽处的小径
一片卷叶里空寂的河床
扑倒在脸上的树枝
时间的刻痕

爱晚亭

你是对自己还是对消逝者的幻影哑语
时间没有修改你珍藏的背景
我的鞋子沾满今天的灰尘
风的年代却难以识别

风 从山洞里出来
带着老者的寒气
在红色的梁柱上停歇
亭子 其实是空的
香车 宝马 飞鸽
人声 蹄声 鸟声
来者恒来 逝者恒逝
只有仙人留下一丝踪迹
纸薄的灵魂
在釉绿的对联上
反复被
夕阳染红
暴雨冲洗
闪电显影

风 是那见证者

白鸽已在落日的余晖中飞去
永不复返
飞檐 留下鸽子的幻想

它的衣衫挂在树枝上
它的手伸向一片船形的枯叶
沙哑的声音 阅读
一笺无字之书
扔掉 丢在路上
风 归隐于暮色的树林

各种各样的脚步声离去
青石板铺成的坪子
此时没有载负
一片枯黄的枫叶
在边上停落
秋天的熊熊大火
已在山上熄灭

这棵流浪的棕榈
在池塘边停留
凝视 水中的虚影
池塘盛满空虚和孤独

暮色是无声的
海水似的漫上山来
已无处逃避

夜色滞留在丛林边
这里空荡 没有终点

林中的坟墓是终点的符号
站立的墓碑
是死者的替身
墓碑上的文字已被夜色涂掉
死者已在地下长眠

桥下的沟壑
响起岩石的滴水之歌
泉水在黑暗中默默流去

旋转的石阶
载着落叶和枯枝
一步一步 通向
曲折的

回廊 如一把弃置的古琴
被冷月的手指弹拨
婉曲空流 夜色环绕

月光是裸足的
它轻盈地踏过潮湿的草地
穿过黑暗的树林
翻进寺庙的围墙
悄悄拨开金殿的大门

油灯暗淡
地上躺着团垫的空荡
跪拜的姿势落满灰尘
跪拜者扔下怀揣的石头
返回喧嚣的尘世

翻开的经书 在窗台上
被月光打湿
在阳春三月的早晨 波光粼粼
更多的日子淡如秋水
经书永远也读不完 唱不尽

颂歌的曲调比抹布还陈旧
每一个黄昏的合唱
却象金殿一样雄伟
黄昏如海潮重复
不断来临 不断离去

夜是燃了千年的灯油
永不枯竭
除非风 将那殿堂
宁静的油灯扑灭

路 在黑暗中往山顶前行

最清静的 是
住在山顶上的那颗老寿星
它远离山下繁琐的细节
真正脱离尘世
它不怕黑夜
自明自灭 寂静无声
在黎明来临之时
悄然离去

夜过去 曙光重现
她抹去一头雾水
在晨光中梳妆 打粉
重新谛听 脚边
喧嚣的白日的大海

大海的浪花
又卷起来
不小心 把她的裙摆打湿

[[我还没有昵称]]

这首匆匆译出，只是大致译出了意思，十分粗糙，坦言即使多花时间我也没有这样的水平把它译好，若那位有时间帮忙纠正将不胜感谢。


女人容颜变化的波浪
被千百只鞋所踏通向隐蔽处的小径
一片卷叶里空寂的河床
扑倒在脸上的树枝
时间的刻痕

爱晚亭

你是对自己还是对消逝者的幻影哑语
时间没有修改你珍藏的背景
我的鞋子沾满今天的灰尘
风的年代却难以识别

风 从山洞里出来
带着老者的寒气
在红色的梁柱上停歇
亭子 其实是空的
香车 宝马 飞鸽
人声 蹄声 鸟声
来者恒来 逝者恒逝
只有仙人留下一丝踪迹
纸薄的灵魂
在釉绿的对联上
反复被
夕阳染红
暴雨冲洗
闪电显影

风 是那见证者

白鸽已在落日的余晖中飞去
永不复返
飞檐 留下鸽子的幻想

它的衣衫挂在树枝上
它的手伸向一片船形的枯叶
沙哑的声音 阅读
一笺无字之书
扔掉 丢在路上
风 归隐于暮色的树林

各种各样的脚步声离去
青石板铺成的坪子
此时没有载负
一片枯黄的枫叶
在边上停落
秋天的熊熊大火
已在山上熄灭

这棵流浪的棕榈
在池塘边停留
凝视 水中的虚影
池塘盛满空虚和孤独

暮色是无声的
海水似的漫上山来
已无处逃避

夜色滞留在丛林边
这里空荡 没有终点

林中的坟墓是终点的符号
站立的墓碑
是死者的替身
墓碑上的文字已被夜色涂掉
死者已在地下长眠

桥下的沟壑
响起岩石的滴水之歌
泉水在黑暗中默默流去

旋转的石阶
载着落叶和枯枝
一步一步 通向
曲折的

回廊 如一把弃置的古琴
被冷月的手指弹拨
婉曲空流 夜色环绕

月光是裸足的
它轻盈地踏过潮湿的草地
穿过黑暗的树林
翻进寺庙的围墙
悄悄拨开金殿的大门

油灯暗淡
地上躺着团垫的空荡
跪拜的姿势落满灰尘
跪拜者扔下怀揣的石头
返回喧嚣的尘世

翻开的经书 在窗台上
被月光打湿
在阳春三月的早晨 波光粼粼
更多的日子淡如秋水
经书永远也读不完 唱不尽

颂歌的曲调比抹布还陈旧
每一个黄昏的合唱
却象金殿一样雄伟
黄昏如海潮重复
不断来临 不断离去

夜是燃了千年的灯油
永不枯竭
除非风 将那殿堂
宁静的油灯扑灭

路 在黑暗中往山顶前行

最清静的 是
住在山顶上的那颗老寿星
它远离山下繁琐的细节
真正脱离尘世
它不怕黑夜
自明自灭 寂静无声
在黎明来临之时
悄然离去

夜过去 曙光重现
她抹去一头雾水
在晨光中梳妆 打粉
重新谛听 脚边
喧嚣的白日的大海

大海的浪花
又卷起来
不小心 把她的裙摆打湿