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不上网的时候只输用英文，见谅
This is an endless rainy winter. Rain is pouring in days and drizzling at nights, with the sober and gloomy cloud, mingling together the morning and evening; the nippy wind, rustling the branches and leaves of the elms; and the perpetual loneliness, which, I wonder, whether is the reminiscence of my hometown, my family, and my parents and friends, or has been engraved in my heart, born with me, growing with my body, and entangling with my spirit, as it were, a long viper, whenever there is melancholy, depressiveness, or solitude, it will burst out, shackle my flesh, and devour my soul, resuming its reign and spreading its shadow over this continent. The street lamps are obscured by the downfall, the red roofs, the white walls, and the green trees and verdurous grass, are faded and delustered in the heavy darkness. In this moment, at this dull and drowsy time, when the entire night seems to be dominated with the dreary sound of rain, I am sojourning in a small room in a distant land far away from my homeland, with the dusky light beaming the soft and hopeful glow on every sombrous corner, and a cup of hot tea, from which all its energy is seemingly emanating around the alone in this world, providing them the most precious albeit tenuous warmth and dispersing the despairing coldness outside the window.
I turn on the radio, and indulge myself in those familiar melodies. I love old songs, because of, perhaps, their purity, just as the azure heaven, reflected in the limpid mighty lake, of tranquility, of extreme peacefulness, and of the supreme goodness and beauty, which, it appears, extends its border to the end of the horizon, and merges with the heaven into a perfect sapphirine world—what a splendid and magnificent scene of the sparkling liquid silver on the surface of the lake rippled by the occasional breeze; their innocence, seemingly, the humble daisy unfolding its crimson tints to the morning, the fresh fragrance of the new greenery exhaled in the afternoon, and the soft voices of the little yellowbirds on their way home in the evening; and, withal, their evocation of my old memories which I thought have been buried in the oblivion. At the time when I was lonesome, or wrenched by missing the elapsed time and my best friends, I would like to stay with music, close my eyes, and waft myself in the recollection of the whilom tears and laughter, and the snug fireside.
It was several years ago when I was a junior that I lived in a similar room, laying on my bed, in the bosom of the similar dusky light which partially diluted the fibrous fogs in that chilly rainy night from without, and accompanied with the similar music but together with my best friend. The environment lapsed into still and silence, with the exception of the incessant raps derived from the rain pattering the window, and the sweet and long-drawn cadences performed by the contralto resounded in that small hovel. Then, my friend broke the silent air, he said: “what a warm and cozy night tonight…but, I wonder, if there will be sometime, somewhere I am able to listen these music with you.” I knew what he was talking about: it was the time he left school and faced the perplexing society and the uncertain future, and I had to design the blueprint of my life one year later—we soon had to struggle for our lives respectively, attracted in different pursuits, and distracted by the similar sundry engagements, that fatigued our bodies, withered our wisdom, dissipated our common interests, and engulfed even the last morsel of peaceful time with which we could spend in music. “Please”, after a long silence, I said: “don’t forget this night, it’s the night of us, and it’s the night of the best music.”
Now, my friend has settled in a small town in southern China and became a happy father a couple of mouths before. After suffering some frustrations in his businesses and the weary trudge across half of China, he can eventually cease from wandering and nest his new home and new family, with his beautiful wife and a lovely baby. But I am still on my journey, tarrying at a small cottage in a separate continent, wending my way to that perhaps inaccessible palace of liberty, and striving for the construction of my ideal home in the daily lonely perambulation. Is my friend now listening the same music and recollecting the same story?
The raindrop is dripping from the eaves, sliding across the window, meandering cheerfully on the glass, and converging gradually into a glittering watery curtain. The music draws me out of the contemplation back to the realistic world—this is a song in 1970s, <the year I am 17> by Xia Yin.
It is a lovely song, telling a story about an adolescent girl who at her 17 tried to leave her home and experience the independent life several days. She then with a little excitement as well as licks of tension lingered about the streets and alleys, with the sauntering gaze at the windows of one fashion shop to another, caught by the new-styled knickers but unable to afford any of them except making a face to the icy saleswoman, and being reviled by the ill-tempered driver when she ran across the road without noticing the traffic light. At last, she felt tired, cold, and hungry, and the words her mother told her before she left sparked: don’t forget the way back home—is there anything more precious than the comfort and warm of our home?
I sit for some time lost in the reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire. It is of possibility that youth is a period of riot, that the young people begin to forge their identity and long for the liberal life, that they though destitute of power and experiences, being too delicate and too vulnerable to survive in the society, are eager to slope off from the shelter of their parents and court for their independence, and that they manage to exploit their own future disparate from that of the elders. As a result, they behave like the disobeyers, violating any banal tradition ruled by their parents, and their songs are full of their rosy dreams, with the unsophisticated perception of the complicated society by the purest eyes and the untainted psyche—this might be the bewitchery of these youth songs, which record our crystal-like old dreams, and preserve something priceless that are once cherished firmly in our heart but then lost in the distraction of the social life. And when they are in the face of the bleakness and cruelty of the real life, staggering in the storm of the persecution and the tyranny of the potentates, and limped by the intricate nepotism and the utilitarian commercialization, it is their home that they will stay as their last refuge—the last place of safety, congeniality, and happiness.
But I am still suspecting, whether there is my home actually existing in this world. I believe that it is indeed a place that everyone engraves into his memory as his home, on which they are in preference to perch whenever they are in desperate straits and predicaments, of which they will dream most frequently in both those dazzling and delighting days and the forlorn and frosty nights, and from which they imbibe courage, mettle and power that ensure them to march ahead. Nevertheless, the very place, my only home where I dreamed about a thousand times and came back to in my every trance, had been demolished and, together with my memory of childhood and youth, obliterated by the blossom of that city, and perished from the earth by the forest of the modern skyscrapers. And I know, it is no longer there, and I become a homeless child.
Despite this irreversible fact, I yet cannot find my home nowhere—it must be somewhere and waiting for my return. I rise and open the window, ventilating the room with the cool and animating atmosphere outside, and endeavouring to form some arrangement in my mind of what I have been mused on. The rain has stopped, and from between the passing cloud a peep of the deep starry night is beheld, wherein the Venus, the brightest star, is twinkling and pouring down a silver gleam, as it were, the trembling light from a distant window, and the guide of the people go astray. Suddenly, I hear the sweet gushes of melody from behind and then the most elegant voice—this is Teresa’s <the love of my village>:
Where was my hometown, you asked me tenderly ふるさとはどこですかと あなたはきいた
This was my hamlet, where I treasured up in memory この町の生れですと 私は答えた
In my dream I was the girl only ああそして あなたがいつの日か
that you had her hand and came back to your childhood alley あなたのふるさとへ つれて行ってくれる日を 梦みたの
Please my Love, please bless my wish 生まれたてのこの爱の
and the flowery journey with my sweetie ゆくえを祈りたい
Where was your hometown, I asked you softly ふるさとはどこですかと 私はきいた
There was a small village, beside the southern sea 南の海の町と あなたは答えた
In your eyes I found your dream glittery ああ そして 幼い日のことを ひとみをかがやかせ
that it crooned the old lullaby, humming the colorful past of thee 歌うように梦のように话したわ
Please came with me, please came with me ふたりして行かないかと
and I could feel your heart of felicity 私にはきこえたの
What a rosy reminiscence, never lapsed nor misty ああだけど 今では思い出ね
Though it is only you, it is you solely あなたはふるさとへ ただひとりただひとり
going back to the very town in our promise 归るのね
It would still be my most congenial harbor eternally ふるさとはそんなにも あたたかもない
Yes, this is my home, and this is where I am going to reside, with the most reposed serenity, the sweetest memory, and the fair dream without constraint.
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发表于 2009-6-24 11:00:27
发表于 2009-6-24 11:05:47
楼主
。。。一定要找到它！~~~！！
发表于 2009-6-24 12:30:56
