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哀歌--悼工友 - Elegy--for a fellow worker

by Eleanor Goodman 

original by Li Hao

 

哀歌

————悼工友

     工地里的乱石铁丝网密集,星夜与杂草丛生,直通县委的马
路。
     螺丝扣和接头扣,还有野狗啃不动的牛崽骨、猪手,
     以及绿蝇叮咬的鸡肠与鱼的脏腑,在太阳中,生锈,长霉,
 

     互相腐臭。藏匿在阴湿,朽气中的水蛇,从地基外的稻田里
     爬进来的,蜷缩成一团。它喉中的蛤蟆,细细地屏住呼吸,
     对峙着那生吞自己的,狭长岑寂。在虚空中,在蛇之体内,
 

     生起的檐柱,如同远山在远处挪移,如同四野中的鬼怪御风,
     将未知的惊恐与疑神,涌于起伏的稻浪里。我匡正内心,
     控住柔弱的意志,穿出脚手之林,站在楼板上,浸于一缕幽
光里,
 

    以扳手,以钢管,找寻失散的脑筋。在我们搭起来的脚手架
上,
    燕子在自己的歌中,连夜贴墙赶工,连夜以瓦刀劈砍红砖与
时空,
    以水泥浇灌生存与砖块之间的裂缝——血汗、砖渣、水泥浆,
 

                                  砥砺着自己裤裆里的阴茎。
 

    突然:咔  嚓!歌唱:终止。一阵眩晕,如同翻飞的,悖逆自
身向低地
    垂直飞行的盐老鼠。然后他猛地撞击在砖墙,那整齐如矢的
钢筋头中。
    我,目睹高歌与空腹的你。我目睹你如同一片碎纸在空中飞。

    我目睹你的脑子你的脖子你的前心后背你的水泥裤裆你的大
腿被整齐的箭头刺穿并高高悬起如同鱼叉飞入水中之后从水中
弯曲着竹竿举出水面仍然摇头摆尾的大鲤鱼
   在黄昏中我目睹你的四肢如同目睹麻叶上的黑寡妇抓住的活
蚂蚱在网与天空下抽筋我目睹你的头发你的脸你的鼻孔嘴巴耳
朵你的眼睛你的胸脯肚子裤裆你的大腿小腿向外爆炸式地喷射
着:我们一起唱过的所有的新歌
    从刺穿你的钢筋到你的身体到我们一起垒起来的砖头墙到摊
开的洋灰到每一层高楼的楼顶到石棉瓦到沙坑到扎根在红锈中
的牛毛毡到地面到深深的地层里到与地下的歌声汇合到紫黑色
的血到地下暗涌的哀告!
 

        你不再是找不到家乡的亲人。然后,接电话封堵门缝里的
电闪雷鸣,然后,从那无人之境,止住悲泣中的警铃,从荒野
的另一端竖起来的稻茬和菜园,栖居在我们的生魂中。你躺在
薄薄的铁皮上,剥开太阳与光圈,如同你的生父。

Elegy

————for a fellow worker

Strewn stones and wire mesh at the construction site, the star-filled night and weeds lead to the road
        to the county Party seat.
Screw-threads and clasps, calf bones and pigs’ feet the stray dogs can’t gnaw through,
fly-bitten chicken intestine and fish viscera rust or rot in the sun,

decomposing each other. Hidden in the dark damp, in the putrefied air, a watersnake slithers in
from the outlying rice paddies, curling into a ball. The frog in its throat carefully holds its breath,
facing the long narrow silence that swallowed it alive. In the void, in that snake’s body,

a peripheral column is born, like a distant mountain being moved to a distant place, like evil forces
        flying everywhere on the wind,
causing unknown panic and doubt to gush in waves from the rippling rice fields. My rectified heart
controls my weak will, passing through the forest of scaffolding and standing on the floorboards,
       soaked in dim light,

with stayed hands, with steel pipes, it searches for my scattered mind. In the scaffold we’ve erected,
with swallows in song, we hurry to put up walls, splitting bricks and time with bricklayer’s cleavers,
irrigating the rifts between life and bricks with cement—blood and sweat, brick dregs, mortar,

                             and tempering our penises in our pants.

Suddenly: kacha! The singing stops. A burst of vertigo, like a bat streaking through the air, reversing
its body’s perpendicular descent. Then without warning it slams against the brick wall, between
         the arrow-straight steel reinforcement bars.
With my own eyes, I see you, singing, hungry. I see you flying through the air like a scrap of paper.

I see your head and neck and front and back and your cement-covered crotch and your legs straight as arrows
piercing the heights and dangling like a harpoon flying into the water and after from the depths emerges a
wriggling carp on a crooked bamboo pole

Through the dusk I see your four limbs as though watching a black widow spider on a hemp leaf seizing a
locust in its web and all the struggling and I see your hair your face your nostrils mouth and ears and your eyes
your chest stomach crotch and your calves and thighs explode outward in a spray: and all of the new songs we sang 

pass through your steel bars to your body to the brick walls we laid together to the cement we spread to roofs
of all the buildings to the asbestos tiles to the sand pits to the foundation in the red rust carpet to the earth to
the deep stratum until it converges with songs underground and on to the deep purple of blood and the
underground dark gushing of an obituary!

You will never more seek in vain for kinsmen. Then, when the call is answered and blocks the gap under the
door with lightning and thunder, and from that empty place, alarm bells bring a halt to tears, the rice chaff and
farms rising on the other side of the wilderness, you will dwell in our souls. You lie on the thin iron sheeting,
stripped of the sun and its aperture, just like your own father.