汇入红尘

 

 

文/安然

 

汇入红尘，

无数沉默在逆流顺流。

几辈子的漩涡与浪花，

一时淤塞了老城

苦涩的嘴。

像十公里外

那条坏脾气的母亲河。

 

每个路口

都在喘息；

每次拐弯

都是选择了一个人的华容道。

生命跌跌撞撞，

命运趁机推推搡搡；

若无一点执念，

如何抵抗这份汹涌纵横的荒凉？

 

老阳端在天上，

斜睨着空旷的饭堂。

对桌的老头手机没电，

也端了一碗胡辣汤。

兀立闹市，

寻到的这家网红店煞是出人意料。

 

几个胖大的老太太一身面粉白，

玻璃厨间忙进忙出，

将笸箩筐里的牛肉煎包

又给打了下，

烫手、流油。

味道与眼神，

似乎不像远在大河之南，

倒像藏在回民巷道里的

旧粮店。

 

开口就直抵心事：

回回家的味道都差不多！

似乎不用告白，

那命一般的戒律

就刻在脸上。

 

 

Merging into the Red Dust

By An Ran

 

Merging into the red dust,
countless silences drift against the current or with it.
Vortices and spray from lifetimes past
suddenly silt up the old city’s
bitter mouth.
Like the bad-tempered Mother River
ten kilometers away.

 

Every intersection
is gasping for breath;
every turn
is choosing one’s own Huarong Path alone.
Life stumbles and collides,
while fate seizes the chance to shove and push;
without a shred of stubborn obsession,
how can one resist this surging, boundless desolation?

 

The old sun hangs high in the sky,
squinting at the empty dining hall.
Across the table, an old man whose phone has died
also holds a bowl of spicy pepper soup.
Standing alone in the bustling city,
this unexpectedly found trendy shop surprises us.

 

Several stout old ladies, covered in white flour,
bustle in and out of the glass kitchen,
Cooking once more on the beef pancakes
in the woven baskets—
scalding hot, dripping with oil.
The taste and the look in their eyes
seem not to belong to the south of the great river,
but rather to an old grain shop
hidden deep in a Hui Muslim alley.

 

One sentence goes straight to the heart:
“The taste of going home is always about the same!”
It seems no confession is needed—
that fate-like commandment
is already carved into their faces.