你不回頭

舒婷

你的旅行車駛進太陽里，太陽五年不再回來。

風依然吹著小步舞曲。

將落日的光環挽在肩上，越來越龐然沉重的影子領我，慢慢回家。

經過你家的小巷口，石條路還是那么濕漉漉，不時從黑糊糊的門洞傳出潑水聲。一輛走過很長旅途的紅色自行車，斜倚在廣告牌前尋求休息，時髦女郎臉蛋臟兮兮地微笑著。鍋鏟刺耳地刮著鐵鍋，油煙和鹵鴨的香味順著一盞濁燈彌漫開來，夜攤上市了。

被遺棄的最后一抹余暉，還在猶豫，終于不勝悲哀地沿著水銹和苔斑的高墻游走，沒有誰挽留。

三十五年來，你從蹣跚學步到青春期白跑鞋的舞步終于走出了這條狹窄的小巷，走向一片開闊的港口。

你真的不回頭嗎?

啊，你不回頭是因為小巷所洞悉的你的幻滅的往事你不愿帶走?

你不回頭是由于斑斕的霓虹燈旋開一圈圈“倫巴”、“探戈”，你天性無法接納清一色的月光?

你不回頭是由于危樓峰聳宛若一口口陷阱你寧可挺直脖子?

你不回頭……

你不回頭……

黃昏的記憶真是擁擠呀。

四月，太平巖，我們在泉水邊。你銜著一根草莖，斷斷續續哼著一支《土撥鼠》，這是一支歡快、幽默的小曲子，它跟四月的陽光、鳥鳴、水聲是那樣和諧，但從開著星星點點小黃花的草叢里望過去，你雙肘撐在地上，一雙又黑又大的眼睛盛滿痛苦、柔情和悵惘。

我們都知道你，如腳邊澈清的泉水、倏忽的魚影，朗朗可見;我們無法知道你，藏匿于“黑箱”深處的凄楚，時時引吭為優雅的男高音。

因此我曾經請求：“要哭泣你就哭泣吧，讓淚水流啊，流啊，默默地……”

現在沒有人為我歌唱輕輕，即使滿眼是淚，繁華大街，車水馬龍，哪里尋一處林子、一片草地，在真摯與渠通的日光下失聲痛哭?

這個黃昏是多么陌生啊!

一九七七年夏天

You Don’t Turn Back

Shu Ting

You ride straight into the sun, the sun will not turn back for a full five years.考生如果怕自己錯過考試報名時間和考試時間的話，可以 免費預約短信提醒，屆時會以短信的方式提醒大家報名和考試時間。

The wind keeps whistling a quickstep tune.

The halo of the setting sun curls around my shoulder, my shadow, growing huge and heavy, leads me slowly home.

Past the entrance to your little lane, the stone paving is still so damp, the sound of splashing water from dismal cave like doorways. A red bicycle, which has traveled a long, long way, rests askew in front of a billboard, the cheeks of the fashionable girl grinning filthily. Spatulas scrape across woks; the smell of oily smoke and stewed duck spreads with the turbid light of a small lamp. The night market is open for business.

A last abandoned smear of fading daylight hesitates, but finally deeply drifts away with the high rust-and-lichen-mottled wall, and no one tries to make it stay.

For thirty-five years, from halting first steps to the youthful dancing gait of your white sneakers, you have been getting out of the wide mouth of this narrow little alley.

Will you really not turn back?

Ha, the reason you don’t turn back is because you don’t want to bring the vanished past of you the alley knows so well?

You don’t turn back on account of the neon lights rotating rhumba, tango, round after round, so you naturally can’t absorb plain moonlight?

You don’t turn back because the high towers towering are just like gaping pitfalls, so you’d rather keep your neck straight?

You don’t turn back…

You don’t turn back…

Dusk memories crowd in.

April. Taiping cliff. We’re beside a spring. You twirl a stalk of grass, idly humming “The Marmot,” it’s a happy, funny little tune, fitting so well April sunlight, birdsong, the sound of water. Only, looking across the yellow flowers open like little stars amidst the grass, you are propped up on your elbows with your eyes, big and dark, distracted, full of pain and tenderness.

We both know you, like the clean spring water by our feet, the flitting shadows of the fish, clearly visible. We have no way to know you, the starkly clear, often elegantly throaty tenor hidden deep inside the “black box.”

For this I used to beg, “If you want to cry then cry, let your tears flow, tears flow, quietly…”

Now there is no one to sing lightly, lightly for me, even if my eyes are full of tears, in the bustling avenues, in the traffic, where to look for a glade, a grassy slope, to cry my eyes out under straightforward, earnest sunshine?

How unfamiliar, this dusk!

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