Fan Jinghua: Something Eternal and Clear in Autumn

　　There Is Something Eternal and Clear in Autumn
　　　　　　　　　For Gloria

As sound instills sound into a trice, the instant becomes boundless of sound.
Windings and curlings rotate and revolve beyond the borders of cloudy eternity,
And meaning and non-meaning circle around an invisible center.
In the Taiji of mystery, the past comes to face the future.
At this moment a center is situated, striking a balance with another
And many other this-moments. They include those randomly hooked on the wall:
A photo, a greeting card, a memo stick, an invitation and a thank-you note.
Colorful lines on a map will never lead a person into sceneries,
But everyone remember how near one has been to a plat of reeds,
The distance measurable by a breeze, even though the river has disappeared.

Leaves float in the mid-air, digesting summer; every leaf knows
The world is made of heights, because the sunrays sieve them
And attach on their surface shades from others.
Therefore, down there, grasses are fierce with their rusty blades.
Autumn’s red face is slackening, and it will shrivel with one more frost,
But on the slipcover of the couch, tightened memory cushions green and love.

No murmurs of waves come from the far, despite repeated finger-combings of hair.
The absent-minded hair has already been resigned to winter before snowfall,
And the fingers slip down the bodily topography of climes
From nape, shoulder blades, breasts, ribs, to crotch, knees and ankles,
From satin, angularly cool, palmful plumpness, warmth, humidity, curved pliancy.
Seasons alternate, only to temper the unaltered sinews between them.
The sound into sound, the echoing bowels; it is not your voice that resounds:
You sit in front of water, day and night, but there are no bubbles of my breath.

That gardenia tree, darkly tall; how reserved can it be after the blooming May?
Lovers pass by hand in hand, and who among them may suddenly turn to it in terror,
Standing still while held by another hand, and rise isolated from all that is around?
The flowerbeds besides a church grow scarlet sages, cockscombs and chrysanthemums;
They will flower in the memories of believers and non-believers alike, after the season,
And in the moonlit garden with forking paths, the refreshed desires smell of the same
Staleness that has echoed in a myriad of nights. The present is the only presence.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 29-Oct.3, 2007

　　　　秋到沧桑
　　　　　　　　For Gloria
声音将声音滴注进了此时，一瞬因声音而无限。
缭绕与奥妙在永远的云气外围盘桓，意义与无意义
相互周旋，谜的太极图中，过去与未来对面。

此刻，我是一个中心；与另一个中心保持平衡，
无数的此刻、我与中心无序地挂在斗室的墙上：
照片、请柬、夹在一起的纸、贺卡、记事贴。

地图上的线条从不能将人引进风景，
而谁都能记得一片芦苇与自己的距离甚至可以
按微风的低速丈量，即便那条小河已经消失。
树叶横在风中，夏天正被消化；它们的每一片都知道
世界有高低，因为阳光能在它们的脸上投下同伴的阴影。
于是草叶举着卷了口的短刀，在落叶的褥子下蠕动。

秋的红颜开始松脆，一场霜能令它突然萎顿
在长榻上，紧绷的记忆留给绿色与爱情的垫子；
一次次撩开耳际的长发，也听不到远方有波浪的低语。

头发失神了，犹如认命于冬日。一双手滑过身体的地形与气候：
颈项、锁骨、胸脯、腹肋、臀股、膝盖、脚踝，
绸缎、凉爽、柔腴、温暖、潮热、冷硬、柔顺。

四季轮替，一遍又一遍坚韧着时间关节的肌腱。
那渗进声音的声音，那回声的灌肠，回响的不是你的嗓音：
“你不舍昼夜地面对流水，而水底早已没有我吹起的泡泡”。

小桥旁的那株栀子树在明亮之后要守住多少矜持？
执手走过的情侣们，谁会怵然回顾， 谁会突然站定，
被另一只手牵着，却离心成一个中心，忘记了身边的人？

而湖水已还原成明净，涟漪的邮票将自己一片片地
寄到云的深处；正是北雁南飞的时节，入秋的眼神
乘着风的弧线而来，施施然，绕开一排梧桐。

教堂两侧的花坛上排列着菊花、爆竹红与鸡冠花，花季之后
仍然盛开在信众与不信者的记忆中，如一波又一波的蝉翼之夜。
月色与小径的欲望花园，鲜味从不新鲜；惟有此刻在此。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2007年10月3日