Chapter 2 Late Works-2
A witch sang to us from behind the mountain,
"Whoever loves me, give your everything quickly."
So we climbed the mountain to find her,
We must overcome the known and unknown dangers.
The succubus asks for liberty, peace, riches,
We give hand after hand,
The more lost, the softer her singing,
In the end, "lost" became our happiness.
Our steps leave a wildfire behind,
The residents at the foot of the mountain looked up and felt palpitations;
That's where love and dreams flicker among the thorns,
And the song of the witch has been silent behind the mountain.
1956
1
Farewell to you, my friend?
My shadow, my past self?
The sky is so blue, the sun is so warm,
I thought of you in the song of the birds.
I remember, it was the same day,
I gladly stepped out of myself and came back from an outing,
I was just about to tell you my impressions,
You just avoid me indifferently.
Since that day, you have been ill at home,
How your waywardness has made me sad;
Alas, how many midnights I lie in bed,
Toss and turn without sleep, just make peace with you.
I went to Xinhua Bookstore to buy some books,
Open the book, burst out a blazing flame,
The heat makes you shudder,
Say yes it destroys your backbone.
How much camaraderie, care and reality
All received by eyes and ears to heart;
A letter from a friend said: "Live a new life!"
You have lost the fresh air ever since.
History opened a huge page,
How many people wrote oaths at Tiananmen Square,
I raised my hand there too;
Floods submerge lonely islands.
Where else do you moan and smile?
Even your smile is so humble,
Although your thousands of words are tortuous,
But how can the shadow touch the sunshine?
I've seen advanced producer conferences,
Red light, green color, really brilliant,
They all marched triumphantly into the vestibule,
The back door froze the petty bourgeoisie.
I walked the streets I used to walk,
The dilapidated houses there are being demolished,
Oh, how many years of broken tiles and rafters,
There still haunts your soul.
Farewell to you, my friend?
My shadow, my past self?
The sky is so blue, the sun is so warm,
rest in peace!Let me sacrifice joy!
2
"Oh, bury, bury, bury!"
"Hope" cries out to me:
"You look but skeletons,
What else is worth remembering?
His seven orifices bleed poisonous blood,
One touch and I'm paralyzed. "
But Memories took my hand,
She is the enemy of Hope;
She had countless daughters,
Among them, "pride" is the most beautiful;
"Pride" is my eyes,
Can I really abandon her?
"Oh, bury, bury, bury!"
"Hope" called out to me again:
"Look at her hard heart,
How can I be turned upside down by her again?
She will lead you into the mist,
Shrunk me down in the fog. "
Fortunately, "Love" came to help,
"Love" melts "pride":
an ancient prison,
Oh, there is nothing left in an instant;
But I still have "fear" in my heart,
This is my prudent mother.
"Oh, bury, bury, bury!"
"Hope" advised me again:
"Don't look at her wrinkled face,
She is most insidious to me:
She keeps your selfishness close,
covered your head again
A cloud that makes you happy. "
But this time, I'm afraid:
Is "hope" lying to me?
How can I leave everything behind?
If the "I" is also lost,
Where can I find a warm home?
"Faith" is on the other side of the sea,
Then came a boat,
I see the world on the other side
nothing like what I used to be;
Why can't I cross over?
"Because you still miss this place!"
"Oh, bury, bury, bury!"
I can't help shouting to myself:
In this corner of death,
I wandered too long, lost;
Let me wash myself with tears,
Feel the likes of confession first.
3
And so, like a bird flying down a long dark passage,
I fly out to meet the sun and you, dear readers;
I don't know how many heroic epics have been written in this era,
And I, poor heart!Only my own funeral song.
There's not much to sing about: it's nothing more than
An old intellectual, the twists and turns he has experienced;
His burden is heavy, as you have seen; he is determined
Walking side by side with you, here shows his joy.
As far as poetry is concerned, some people may think it is not enthusiastic enough:
I don't have a deep yearning for new things, and I don't have much hatred for the old.
That's why... my funeral song is only half-sung,
That second half, comrades, please help me make it into life.
1957