文/崔浩新
你忘了，夜色中那条僻静的小路要问候食品厂漆黑的大门；
你忘了，岔路劈开北方更衰微的村庄，村庄与悬铃木后的这片红楼生死一线；
你忘了，看不见的木屐像陈姥娘的耳语在楼里窸窣作响；
你忘了，合作社里的玉堂酱瓜，一毛钱的念想曾在静脉里吱呀轧过破碎的故乡；
你忘了，母鹰伸展开闪闪发亮的翅膀，扑向幽寂神圣的大地……
一个同样灰如梦魇的午后，
台风潜入伤口，未愈合的。
依旧沿着那条水路，悲伤死去多年，
半梦半醒间再度涌上记忆。
云团低垂，
如羽翼拂过废弃的闸口和沉寂的大寺。
十五年了，一首诗能否点燃此际的浑沌，
照亮你最初的笑容。
Don’t Forget — In Memory of My Maternal Grandmother, Zuo Baoying
Written by Cui Haoxin
You forgot, how that quiet path in the nightfall was to greet the food factory’s pitch-black gate;
You forgot, how the fork in the road split the remoter, withering villages of the North, villages hanging between life and death with these red buildings behind the plane trees;
You forgot, how the unseen wooden clogs, like Great-Aunt Chen’s whispers, rustled inside the building;
You forgot, how the Yutang pickled cucumbers in the co-op, a one-cent longing, once creaked through the veins, crushing the homeland;
You forgot, how the mother eagle spread her gleaming wings, plunging toward the silent, sacred earth...
An afternoon equally gray as a nightmare,
The typhoon slipped into the wound, the unhealed one.
Still along that same waterway, sadness having died for years, Surged back into memory, half-asleep and half-awake.
Clouds hung low, Like wings brushing past the abandoned sluice gate and the silent Grand Mosque.
Fifteen years now, can a poem ignite the chaos of this moment,
To illuminate your primal smile.
