Hoe

 

by Anran

 

The first time I swung the hoe,
I planted irises.
Two rows of green seedlings,
two shallow furrows in the hard soil.

 

The clumsy blade drew strange cloud-script in the air,
stroke after stroke.
The earth remained stubborn and silent.
What was being cut open, inch by inch,
were secrets buried twenty years ago in the old factory grounds—
wisps of high-density polyethylene,
red and white,
drifting,
like irreconcilable old grudges.
This land, guarded by its city god,
harbors a terrible barrenness.

 

Life will be planted in this barrenness.
The hoe must go downward,
then pull backward,
and only then can the waist and abdomen straighten with tension.
Whether fragile or strong,
the course of life is probably just like this.

 

 

锄头

 

文/安然

 

第一次挥动锄头，

种的是鸢尾。

两排青苗，

硬土上的两道浅沟。

 

锄刃笨拙地在空中

画着诡异的云篆，

一下下，

土地倔强而沉默。

那一寸寸被割伤的

是二十年前旧厂区埋葬的秘密，

一缕缕高密度的聚乙烯，

红的白的，

飘零，

如同永难和解的积怨。

此方城隍收纳的，

是可怕的贫瘠。

 

生命将被种在这贫瘠里。

锄头需要向下，

然后向后拉，

最后才是立起绷紧的腰腹。

无论柔弱或刚强，

大概，生命的历程莫不如是。