The Howling Wind Fills Both Ears

 

By An Ran

 

The howling wind fills both ears.
You sink into your own slow, unhurried
green vault built of interlacing branches,
silently marveling at the purity of sound.
The scenery has been revised again and again.
You found this place
and thought you had found an answer.

 

The last traces of spring
drift along the field ridges
and lose themselves step by step.
On the dim water surface remain the stubble of reeds harvested last winter.
The stream, in newly dug channels,
turns at ninety-degree angles on command.
Ponds have been excavated in great numbers—
their uniform square shapes suggest
that the wetland, under the strong protection of the new reservoir,
has begun to multiply.

 

Beside the woods, the cement foundation of a house
is now nothing but a naked lump of exposed desire.
The wild reeds that draw near it
bend their bodies one by one,
drooping with elongated, withered yellow faces,
while the gramineous weeds—
with their even humbler, wordless green—
never miss
a single corner or crevice.

 

When, scrambling on all fours,
you climb the earthen dam at the end of the path,
the new world you imagined
turns out to be an even vaster, boundless accumulation.
Everyone must eat some dirt—
the English proverb from Pride and Prejudice
takes root here.

 

This enormous metaphor is not unfamiliar,
yet it feels as if separated by several generations.
In the summer flood of ’75,
the county agricultural machinery factory was ordered here to fight the flood.
A scrawny young worker and his comrades
stood in the wind and sand of the wilderness
like a patch of crooked, swaying green shoots.

 

Three years later,
within the perfection wrapped by two empty husks,
only one intact grain was harvested.
There was no time for the tragicomedy to be contemplated.
Sowing,
loss,
interwoven with scrambling on all fours.
In the jolting, bumping extension,
you draw near one destined ignorance after another.

 

When he finally speaks,
what remains are only a few sparse words—
that vague phrase “Zhen Guo Hui Hui”
(the Ming-era “State-Guarding Hui”),
which, no matter how you listen,
sounds like a sigh at the river’s mouth
that no one hears.

 

呼呼的风声灌满双耳

 

文/安然

 

呼呼的风声灌满双耳，

你沉浸在自己慢悠悠的

树桠搭建的绿穹下，

在心里感叹声音的纯净。

风景一次次被修改，

找到这里，

以为有了一种答案。

 

最后的春意

沿着田埂路

一步步迷失。

幽暗的水面残留着去冬收割过后的芦苇茬子，

溪流在新开掘的沟渠里

按九十度直角的指令拐弯，

池塘挖了不少，

那统一的四四方方的形制暗示

湿地在新水库的强力庇护下

开始繁衍。

 

林边的水泥房基

只剩一团裸漏的欲望，

亲近它的野苇，

一根根身子佝偻，

耷拉着一张张

拉长的枯黄的脸，

而禾本杂草——

以其更卑微与无言的绿，

从不放过

每一处犄角旮旯。

 

当手脚并用

攀上小路尽头的那道土坝，

心目中的新天地

却是更辽阔无边的堆积。

每个人都要吃一些土——

傲慢与偏见里的英国谚语

在此落地。

 

这巨大的隐喻并不陌生，

却像隔了若干世代。

七五年伏汛，

县农机厂奉命在此抗洪。

一个干瘦的青工与他的工友

在旷野的风沙里

像一片东倒西歪的青苗。

 

三年后，

两片空鼓的颖叶

包裹下的完美里，

只收获一颗完整的颖果。

悲喜剧来不及沉思，

播撒、

遗失，

穿插着手脚并用的攀爬。

在颠颠簸簸的延伸中

抵近一个又一个

注定的无知。

 

当他终于开口

还剩下的是为数不多的词——

那个“镇国回回”的模糊说法，

听来听去，

就像河口上

一声没人听见的叹息。

 

 

 

Once the Heavy Sluice Gate is Lifted

 

 

Once the Heavy Sluice Gate is Lifted

 

By Anran

 

Once the heavy sluice gate is lifted,

Images surge and flow like grey-white mountain mists.

That is the end of time:

The sky belongs to pure white.

Female catkins have the right to fly,

While the dark brown, furry

Male catkins harbor an endless

Heart of a King for the earth.

Back then, the world belonged not only to the

Two-legged beasts standing beneath the trees;

That vanished sky

Also belonged to the black-skinned elms, locusts, and local sycamores,

The heavens they propped up

Bore an innate melancholy.

Flocks of birds would find their broad shelter;

Cicadas, on summer nights, would devoutly

Join the choir en masse;

With a climactic roar,

They hymned that rich and stoic inner world.

Everything you do not see

Lies beneath the stumbling feet of those two-legged beasts.

 

In the green shadows,

Those rows of darkening red-brick buildings

Had not yet been harvested by capital,

Solid and steady,

Like monuments growing

Out of the blackness of the soil;

They held no pride of marble,

They were but human furnaces,

Where human voices boiled between the red bricks.

An old-timer scavenging for scraps

Stretched his shadow long,

Filling every crevice of the walls.

 

The furnace fire cannot burn forever,

Even if the hand spinning the top

Never tires,

It must eventually follow the melody of seasons;

Black magic

Once again sounds

The muffled horn,

Winning nothing but

Steamers and ice cellars,

Yet those red bricks will stretch their limbs

In the darkness,

Resurrecting one by one

From the embers of discipline;

Only to scatter again as the chaotic heartbeats beneath one's feet

And the spy dramas

Staged at every corner.

 

On that mute and silent night,

The moon hid early behind its Master,

As if it had received the notice in advance.

The parabola of death

Has moved along the axis of time

For twenty years,

Destined at last to fall.

Chainsaws roar in the distance,

I curse alongside my mother,

As steep anger plunges from the treetops,

Striking the fate of the developer and his son, ten years hence.

 

 

一旦沉压的闸门提起

 

文/安然

 

一旦沉压的闸门提起，

图像便如灰白的岚雾翻涌流淌。

那就是时间的尽头：

天空属于纯白。

雌株花序有权利飞翔，

而黑褐、毛茸茸的

雄株花序对大地的王者之心

永无止境。

那时，世界不仅属于树下

直立的两脚兽；

那片消失的天空

也属于黑皮肤的榆树、槐树与乡土梧桐，

它们支撑起的天空

带着与生俱来的忧郁气质。

群鸟将受它宽厚的庇护；

知了将在夏夜虔诚地

集体加入唱诗班；

以极致地轰鸣，

礼赞那个丰富隐忍的内部世界。

你所不见的

都在两脚兽蹒跚的脚下。

 

绿影里，

那几排发暗的红砖楼

还未被资本收割，

坚实稳固，

像是从泥土的黧黑里

生长出来的纪念碑；

没有大理石的骄傲，

它只是人间火炉,

人声在红砖间沸腾。

捡垃圾的老油条

把自己的影子拉长，

填满它的每一道缝隙。

 

炉火不可能永远燃烧，

即使那只抽动陀螺的手

不知疲乏，

也终要遵循季节的旋律；

黑魔法

又一次吹响

沉闷的号角，

胜利赢得的

即使只是蒸笼与冰窖，

那些红砖也会在暗黑里

舒展筋骨，

自规训的余烬中

一一复活；

再散落成脚下凌乱的心跳

和拐角处

上演的敌特片。

 

那个哑默的夜晚，

月亮早早躲进主人的身后，

仿佛提前接到了通知。

死亡这条抛物线

沿时间轴

运行了二十年，

终将落下。

电锯在远处咆哮，

我与母亲一起诅咒，

有陡直的愤怒自树顶跌落，

砸向十年后地产商父子的命运。

青春的物语

 

 

文/安然

 

青春的物语

停歇在你大眼睛的那束清亮之上，

你为什么不……

我久久退却，

你的哀怨在记忆的阴影里

再次照亮我。

 

我不曾用甜言蜜语喂养过的早衰的时代，

花朵般的吻

不属于我。

那时的底色是十英寸的单调与灰暗，

饥馑的感觉并未远离，

而恐惧

以真理之名，

站在黄绿色的卡车上在市区游荡。

我们相逢的课桌，

刻满我所不思议的语言。

 

脱缰的绿意

所误入的铅灰的一角，

试图同古老的血液对话：

“你是三桓之后！”

槐花的笑声缀满斗兽场的虚空，

在那个夏日，

在那个笨拙的黎明。

 

溃散

如命数一样如约到来，

拣选

是众神对人的

第一场行刑、

第一次枪杀。

你为什么将槐花掷向那张死亡之网？

你知道：

理智像狼群

在黑暗里窥伺。

 

Youth's Tale

by An Ran

 

Youth's tale
comes to rest upon the clear brightness in your large eyes.
Why didn’t you…
I retreat for a long, long time,
and your sorrow, in the shadows of memory,
lights me up once again.

 

I never fed the prematurely aged era with sweet words,
flower-like kisses
do not belong to me.
The base color of those days was ten inches of monotony and gray,
the feeling of famine never far away,
and fear,
in the name of truth,
stood on yellow-green trucks, roaming the city streets.
The desk where we met
was carved with words I could never have imagined.

 

The runaway greenness
that strayed into this lead-gray corner,
tried to converse with ancient blood:
“You are a descendant of the Three Huans!”
The laughter of locust flowers filled the void of the amphitheater,
on that summer day,
in that clumsy dawn.

 

Disintegration
arrived as punctually as fate.
Selection
was the gods’ first execution upon man,
the first shooting.
Why did you throw the locust flowers toward that net of death?
You knew:
reason is like a pack of wolves,
lurking in the darkness.

Chant on the Mountaintop

 

By An Ran

 

Rising with effort in the sun’s blazing flames,
stumbling in the mottled darkness beneath the cliff,
carefully stepping around a collapsed old dream—
even the last divine power
could not protect the ten-directional monastery.

 

On the empty cliff-top,
like Maudgalyayana holding up his alms bowl,
it receives the heavy burdens of a middle-aged heart.
Eyes closed, I recite
that primal revelation,
once,
twice—
the green wind in the valley
recites with me
this green scripture.

 

When I open my eyes,
I find myself facing the great hall carved into the mountainside.
Is the warrior who subdues all afflictions also listening?
Whether in Sanskrit or in Arabic,
what we chant
is nothing more than
a tablet of paracetamol
in the high fever of life.

 

 

山顶的吟唱

 

文/安然

 

在太阳的光焰里奋力上升，

在幽暗斑驳的山崖下

踯躅，

小心地绕过一个倾圮的旧梦，

最后的神通

也护不住十方丛林。

 

空无一人的崖顶，

如目连擎起的钵盂，

收留中年人的心事重重。

闭目诵念

那最初的启示，

一遍、

两遍，

山谷间碧绿的风声，

和我一起诵念

这绿色的经文。

 

睁开眼时，

发现遥对着那座依山开凿的大雄宝殿。

那位降伏一切烦恼的勇士也在倾听吗？

无论梵文还是回文，

我们吟唱的，

都不过是高热人生里的

一片扑热息痛。

 

汇入红尘

 

 

文/安然

 

汇入红尘，

无数沉默在逆流顺流。

几辈子的漩涡与浪花，

一时淤塞了老城

苦涩的嘴。

像十公里外

那条坏脾气的母亲河。

 

每个路口

都在喘息；

每次拐弯

都是选择了一个人的华容道。

生命跌跌撞撞，

命运趁机推推搡搡；

若无一点执念，

如何抵抗这份汹涌纵横的荒凉？

 

老阳端在天上，

斜睨着空旷的饭堂。

对桌的老头手机没电，

也端了一碗胡辣汤。

兀立闹市，

寻到的这家网红店煞是出人意料。

 

几个胖大的老太太一身面粉白，

玻璃厨间忙进忙出，

将笸箩筐里的牛肉煎包

又给打了下，

烫手、流油。

味道与眼神，

似乎不像远在大河之南，

倒像藏在回民巷道里的

旧粮店。

 

开口就直抵心事：

回回家的味道都差不多！

似乎不用告白，

那命一般的戒律

就刻在脸上。

 

 

Merging into the Red Dust

By An Ran

 

Merging into the red dust,
countless silences drift against the current or with it.
Vortices and spray from lifetimes past
suddenly silt up the old city’s
bitter mouth.
Like the bad-tempered Mother River
ten kilometers away.

 

Every intersection
is gasping for breath;
every turn
is choosing one’s own Huarong Path alone.
Life stumbles and collides,
while fate seizes the chance to shove and push;
without a shred of stubborn obsession,
how can one resist this surging, boundless desolation?

 

The old sun hangs high in the sky,
squinting at the empty dining hall.
Across the table, an old man whose phone has died
also holds a bowl of spicy pepper soup.
Standing alone in the bustling city,
this unexpectedly found trendy shop surprises us.

 

Several stout old ladies, covered in white flour,
bustle in and out of the glass kitchen,
Cooking once more on the beef pancakes
in the woven baskets—
scalding hot, dripping with oil.
The taste and the look in their eyes
seem not to belong to the south of the great river,
but rather to an old grain shop
hidden deep in a Hui Muslim alley.

 

One sentence goes straight to the heart:
“The taste of going home is always about the same!”
It seems no confession is needed—
that fate-like commandment
is already carved into their faces.