As the rain gradually ceased to patter, a glimmer of light began to filter into the room through the window curtain. I opened the window and looked out. Ah, the rain clouds had vanished and the remaining raindrops on the tree leaves glistened tremulously under the moonlight like myriads of fireflies. To think that there should appear before my eyes such a beautiful sight after the miserable rain on a lonely evening. Standing at the window for a while, I felt a bit chilly. As I turned round, my eyes suddenly dazzled before the bright light and could not see things distinctly. Everything in the room was blurred by a haze of light except the angel in a picture on the wall. The angel in white was smiling on me with a bunch of flowers in his arms, his wings flapping.
“I seem to have seen the same smile before. When was that? ...” Before I knew, I had sunk into a chair under the window, lost in meditation. A scene of five years ago slowly unveiled before my mind’s eye. It was a long ancient country road. The ground under my donkey’s feet was slippery with mud. The water in the field ditches was murmuring. The green trees in the neighbouring village were shrouded in a mist. The crescent new moon looked as if hanging on the tips of the trees. As I passed along, I somewhat sensed the presence of a child by the roadside carrying something snow white in his arms. After the donkey had gone by, I happened to look back and saw the child. Who was barefoot, looking at me smilingly with a bunch of flowers in his arms. “I seem to have seen the same smile somewhere before!” I was still thinking to myself. Another scene, a scene of ten years ago, slowly unfolded before my mind’s eyes. Rainwater was falling drop by drop onto my clothes from the eaves of a thatched cottage. Beside the earthen doorstep, bubbles in puddles of rainwater were whirling about like mad. Washed by the rain, the wheat fields and grape trellises in front of the cottage door presented a picturesque scene of vivid yellow and tender green. After a while, it cleared up at long last and I hurried down the slope. Up ahead I saw the moon rising high above the sea. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had left something behind. When I stopped and turned round, my eyes fell on an old woman at her cottage door smiling at me, a bunch of flowers in her arms. The three subtle smiles, drifting in the air towards each other like gossamer, became interwoven. At this moment all was bright, clear and clam in my heart. I felt as if I were ascending to heaven or on the way back to my hometown. In my mind’s eye, the three smiling faces now merged into a harmonious whole of love and became indistinguishable.
2010年4月27日星期二
Transient Days
If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn
green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why
should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But
who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by
themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?
I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of then is
undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8000 days have
already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point
into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace.
At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.
What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in
between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish
patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and
stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have
my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie.
Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my
outstretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body
and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day
is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs,
a new day is flashing past.
Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but
waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8000
fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have
been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising
sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have
come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark
naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass
through this world for nothing at all?
O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?
green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why
should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But
who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by
themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?
I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of then is
undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8000 days have
already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point
into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace.
At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.
What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in
between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish
patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and
stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have
my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie.
Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my
outstretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body
and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day
is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs,
a new day is flashing past.
Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but
waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8000
fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have
been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising
sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have
come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark
naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass
through this world for nothing at all?
O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?
2010年4月26日星期一
National Crisis vs Heroic Nation
The course of history is never smooth. It is sometimes beset with difficulties andobstacles and nothing short of a heroic spirit can help surmount them.
A mighty long river sometimes flows through a broad section with plains lyingboundless on either side, its waters rolling on non-stop for thousands upon thousands ofmiles. Sometimes it comes up against a narrow section flanked by high mountains andsteep cliffs, winding through a course with many a perilous twist and turn. A nation, in thecourse of its development, fares likewise.
The historical course of man’s life is just like a journey. A traveler on a long journeypasses through now a broad, level plain, now a rugged, hazardous road. While adetermined traveler cheerfully continues his journey upon reaching a safe and smoothplace, he finds it still more fascinating to come to a rugged place, the enormouslymagnificent spectacle of which, he feels, is better able to generate in him a wonderfulsensation of adventure.
The Chinese nation is now confronted with a rugged and dangerous section of itshistorical course. Nevertheless, there is also in this section a spectacle of enormous magnificence that inspires in us passers-by a delightful sensation of splendor. And this delightful sensation, however, can only be shared by those with a heroic spirit.The Yangtse River and the Yellow River are both symbolic of our national spirit thetwo mighty rivers negotiate deserts and gorges until their turbid torrents surge forwardwith irresistible force.
The present national crisis can never obstruct the advance of ournational life. Let us brace up our spirits and march through this rugged, dangerous road tothe tune of our solemn, stirring songs. The greatest joy of life, mind you, is to build up ourcountry during its most difficult days.
A mighty long river sometimes flows through a broad section with plains lyingboundless on either side, its waters rolling on non-stop for thousands upon thousands ofmiles. Sometimes it comes up against a narrow section flanked by high mountains andsteep cliffs, winding through a course with many a perilous twist and turn. A nation, in thecourse of its development, fares likewise.
The historical course of man’s life is just like a journey. A traveler on a long journeypasses through now a broad, level plain, now a rugged, hazardous road. While adetermined traveler cheerfully continues his journey upon reaching a safe and smoothplace, he finds it still more fascinating to come to a rugged place, the enormouslymagnificent spectacle of which, he feels, is better able to generate in him a wonderfulsensation of adventure.
The Chinese nation is now confronted with a rugged and dangerous section of itshistorical course. Nevertheless, there is also in this section a spectacle of enormous magnificence that inspires in us passers-by a delightful sensation of splendor. And this delightful sensation, however, can only be shared by those with a heroic spirit.The Yangtse River and the Yellow River are both symbolic of our national spirit thetwo mighty rivers negotiate deserts and gorges until their turbid torrents surge forwardwith irresistible force.
The present national crisis can never obstruct the advance of ournational life. Let us brace up our spirits and march through this rugged, dangerous road tothe tune of our solemn, stirring songs. The greatest joy of life, mind you, is to build up ourcountry during its most difficult days.
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