Fan Jinghua: In A Small Town

　　In A Small Town Where I Know Not A Soul

A man puts a folded map on the table, and a cloud of calm
nonrecognition, not alienating, encroaches him.
He sits by a table at the edge of a river, as if by predetermination.
She is taken away by later afternoon sunrays.
An outfit comes alive on her red bicycle in this early autumn.

At the other table across lovers’ heads and coffee pals’ shoulders,
a young woman with a long spoon stirs absent-mindedness in her cup.
A man of pockets and bags of souvenirs is peddling around, doggedly;
A backpacker comes along to ask for the direction to the cathedral
with a few awkward phrases from an Idiot’s Guide.

I drag myself along in a circle of strangeness defined by the nonchalant doves
whose consensus wings lift the earth-pecking life off the ground,
and I feel I am frequently suddenly lowered,
my selfhood being constantly formed and revised.
A familiar panic descends just on time, only to be hammered by church bells
into the green fissures between bricks.
As if lighter than the shadow of a cloud, I step
on the invisible footsteps that have been writing history
by erasing the past.
　　　　　　　　　　　Oct. 2, 2008;　Oct. 20, 2008 revision

　　在一个陌生小镇

一个男人放下一张折叠的地图，宁静的陌生
围上来，却并不欺生
他似乎预先就被安排到最靠河边的桌上
看她被下傍晚的阳光引走
一套早秋的衣衫
在她那辆红色自行车上活了

隔着情侣的头和一帮咖啡客的肩，另一张桌子上
一个年轻女人提着手在杯子里搅动心不在焉
一个浑身口袋挂着纪念品的男人一心一意地兜售
一个背包客走过来，看着一本傻瓜指南
用夹生的句子询问去教堂的路

我走在一个陌生的圆圈中，自己不断被重新生成
貌似不屑的鸽子会以不谋而合的扑动将啄食地面的生命提起
我被一次次甩得更低，每一次都那么突然
带着一种熟悉的惊悚降临广场，教堂的钟声适时地
将它钉进砖头的绿缝
我踏在前人的足迹上，似乎比乌云的影子还要轻
而正是那些隐形的脚印抹消了过去
才磨损出历史
　　　　　　　　　2008年10月21日