Fan Jinghua: Morning Sounds

　　Morning Sounds

To the sounds of morning
At this water-bowelled town
I wake, the sunlight
Heavy on the window curtains.
The rattling of a wooden wheeled cart
On the slate and cobblestones
Inlaid with beatings on the wooden barrels
Of breakfast from soybean,
Semen-smelling,
Makes this room a boat
Swaddling me in.

We lodged this room yesterday as night fell,
And late night I, too, stood on the small bridge,
Looking at a star, long, as if it were a moon,
When she finally found me with a red lantern.
It was long long ago,
And it is now late February or March or early April.
I open my eyes, staring upward
And after several seconds
See behind the dark red truss
Grey tiles groveling on neat effacement.
It must have been for more than a hundred year.

Souls under this roof change, black-haired or white-robed,
But have all gone out, eventually,
Out into different weathers that alternate.
Beyond her breath, a flapping is
Heard on the awning window, in an expectable
Irregular rhythm, over and over
Again, like this woman who, lazily curled up under my arm,
Keeps nudging with the fleshy part of her palm,
For a promised tour of the town,
But does not really care about going out.
And then in a silence the sounds have taken on a changed rhythm.
　　　　　　　　　April 1, 2008

　　晨音

晨音中，我醒来，
在这河道穿肠的小镇，
光，在窗帘上晃动，
沉缓地，伴着木轮子
滚压石板与卵石的闷声，
还有，小槌棒不时敲击木桶，
半边小街飘着清骚的
豆香，不远处的桥头停留着
早点和散发着惺忪的人。
此刻，这个房间
犹如一只小船，我在襁褓中。

昨夜，我也曾站在那桥上，一人，
也是一星如月看了多时，
而她最终找到了我，提着红灯笼。
那已是很久很久以前了，
如今是二月将尽或是三月抑或是四月之初。
我睁开眼，数秒钟过后，才盯住了
天花板，又过了数秒
才看见绛红油漆的屋梁，
撑着灰色小瓦，
它们紧密地趴在一起整齐得
不分彼此，也许已经超过了百年。

这屋檐下人来魂往，幼齿变白头，
最终都走出了门槛，外面，
气候在四季中更替轮回。
此刻，她的呼吸之外，可听见
一种拍打，从遮雨的窗蓬上传来，
似乎没有规律，却又可以预期，
一次之后又会有一次，
犹如我腋下的这个女人，懒懒地蜷曲着，
用手掌的软处轻推我开始松泡的腰，要去
看这小镇，自己却并不想真的起身；
外面的声音仿佛在片刻突然的安静中换了节奏。
　　　　　　　2008年4月4日