秋天
文/Ken
最怕写秋天的诗
好字儿早被古人用了
如今再拿来拼凑
实在难堪...
不想去什么荒山隐屋
劈柴担水
采菇寻药...
那些长嘘短叹
是留给无奈的人
或异想天开的痴者
秋 没什么值得向往的
更没什么可留恋的
只是一个数字
加上九十天...
枯叶落下
吹走了
随它们去吧
还在地球上
它们离不开
我们也离不开...
没有离别
就谈不上痛苦
只是那干冷的风
把一切都吹得发白...
鬓发也斑白了
风一吹
在耳边丝丝作响
不用照镜
已经知晓了...
Autumn
By Ken Fan
Autumn's poems are the hardest.
Nice verses have all been used by the ancients.
It feels awkward to write'em again and again.
Never mind those hermits in wild mountains,
And useless preoccupations with fetching firewood and water,
Or picking mushrooms and medicine plants.
All these are for the helpless people or lunatics.
Autumn, in fact, is nothing to look forward to,
Nor is worth the memories.
It's merely a number plus ninety days.
Leaves fall and get blown away.
Let'em be then.
Still on the Earth,
They can't leave,
Neither can we.
No departure, no suffering.
Just can't stand that dry and chilly wind,
That blows everything pale white,
Along with our hairs.
They make that zz ... noises by the ears.
No need to bring a mirror,
It's all being seen now.
换一换
