写给母亲
曾经，我细数屋檐上的归燕
一只飞起，一群飞散
羽翼上载着你为我描绘的梦幻
曾经，我轻敲布满青苔的树桩听你口中的从前
回声缕缕如烟，你说，
落叶里藏着蘑菇，也沉积着思念
曾经，我和你一起浇灌菜园
我只看见你的笑容
却不知道你手上老茧坚硬
母亲，我是你哺育的一粒种子
如今我已飘远，可钢筋水泥
不能围困我对泥土的眷恋
梦里老屋绿柳拂檐
你白发苍苍，倚藤细听燕子呢喃
手里数着距我回家还有几天
To Mother
Once, I counted the swallows back from the south under the eave,
One flied, the others flied too,
On their wings you painted dreams for me.
Once, I tapped the moss-covered stump to hear your stories of the past
Echoing like wisps of smoke.
You said there were mushrooms hidden among leaves as well as memories.
Once, I watered the garden with you,
Only seeing your smile,
I did not know there were hard calluses on your palms.
Mother, I was a seed nurtured by you,
Now though I am far away from hometown, concrete and steel
In the city can not impede my love for the soil.
In my dream, the green willows before the old house stroking the eaves,
You, grey haired, leaning on vines, hearing swallows twittering,
Are counting days and waiting for my return.
母亲比花鲜艳
泥土和青稞的气味
在蚂蚱的翅膀中扇动
一抹水粉的薄翼
忽闪着幼年的童趣
你为我和妹妹织的黄裙子
两朵盛开在草地上的回忆
你的青春已经凝固在黑白照片
那红头绳系的蝴蝶结
舞动着今天依然斑斓的梦
而笑容永远绽放
无论风雨
那里有我的一片天空
摘几朵野花映在你的胸前
晚霞中
你六十八年的岁月积淀
比花儿鲜艳
Mother Is Brighter Than Flowers
The smells of mud and barley
Are on the grasshopper’s wings,
Thin and light pink,
Flapping with the fun of childhood.
The yellow dresses you knitted for my sister and me
Are memories in blossom on the meadow.
Your youth has been framed in black and white photographs,
The red butterfly knots on your hair
Dancing with dreams still gorgeous today,
Your smile forever as beautiful as flowers,
Where there is a piece of my sky
Regardless of wind and rain.
Now when I pick some wild flowers and hold them
Before your chest in the sunset,
Your life of sixty-eight years life is
Brighter than flowers.
冬至，心暖花开
天冷了我想那些
能带来温暖之物，之人
比如你包的饺子
比如你烤的地瓜
比如你织的帽子
遮住耳朵的地方要在里面帖一层棉花
比如你的手
点燃灶火，端来粥
举到我口边，吹出热气
温暖原来也可以是白色的
雪的颜色，映着你红彤彤的脸蛋
那张照片里你真年轻
爸爸说我们姊妹俩都没你好看
好看的妈妈
You are the Warmth in Winter
It is cold and I think about
Things and people that can bring warmth,
Like the dumplings you made,
Like the sweet potatoes you baked,
Like the hat you knitted
With a layer of cotton added at the ear-covering place,
Like your hands.
You lighted the stove, made a bowl of porridge,
Held it to my mouth and blew out the steam.
Warmth could be white colored,
The color of the snow reflecting your face red.
You look so young in that picture.
Daddy said neither my sister nor me was as beautiful as you.
Oh, my beautiful mother!
石阶
那天，我临窗远望故乡
晨霭中你依然硬朗
光滑的脚窝和青苔中收藏着
当年两个年轻人的笑语
和多年的深情凝眸
曾经，我数着你的级数
登临山顶，懂得了什么是目标
曾经，我提着溪水而行
举步维艰，理解了妈妈的辛劳
曾经，我和妈妈坐在你的身旁
你热烘烘的仿佛我的胸膛
如今我隔着千山万水把你遥望
乡愁如你蜿蜒绵长
我看见父亲，身影遮住了夕阳
而母亲在他的身旁
向我遥望，泪光闪烁
Stone Steps
That day, out of the window I at hometown far away looked.
You are still strong in the morning mist.
Smooth footprints and mosses have collected
The long-ago smiles of two young lovers
And their time lasting loving gaze.
Once your step number I counted,
While up to the hill top, what a goal was I understood.
Once I struggled uphill with stream water in bucket,
Mum’s hard work I comprehended.
Once mum and I side by side on your body sat,
You were hot, so my chest.
Now I can see you though you are remote.
Nostalgia is as long as the extension of mountains and rivers.
Father stands on your step covering the sunset,
With mother beside,
Looking at my direction with tears bright.
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