话说谷雨/现代诗

龙语蛇吟

后来我们说起雨，

说起孟春里抽出的绿，

说起秧苗怎样在薄膜下，

练习站立。

农谚在墙上变软，

铁犁翻出隔年的谷粒。

父亲把蓑衣挂回檐角，

水珠悬而未决。

而母亲在厨房，

将新摘的香椿，

拌入豆腐的沉默。

瓷盘渐渐凉了，

我们始终没有尝出，

泥土的腥气。

吾诗英译：

On Grain Rain

Then we talked of rain,

Of the green that sprouted in early

spring,

Of how the seedlings, beneath the

film,

Practiced standing, a new thing.

Farm proverbs softened on the wall,

The iron plow turned up last year’s

grain.

Father hung his coir raincoat back by

the eaves,

Water droplets hung, in sweet refrain.

While mother, in the kitchen there,

Mixed freshly-picked toon shoots, so

fine,

Into the silence of the tofu white.

The porcelain plate grew cold o’er

time.

Yet we never could taste,

The earth’s pungent, earthy trace.