Our wilderness used to be vast, rich and beautiful. Our farmers have been farming and living in this wasteland for generations. They always hope to use their diligence, wisdom and efforts to make this land rich and prosperous, and make it more vast and magnificent ... However, in the 1940s, the imperialists set foot in China, adding a new burden to this barren land. The poet believes that this desolate scene on the wasteland can't go on any longer. In order to change this situation, we must fight against invaders and corrupt rulers. Otherwise, there is no other way out. Yuan Ye has reached a perfect state in art, a kind of purity without impurities. Ai Qing's unique simplicity, lightness and conciseness have also reached an unprecedented artistic height here.
After 70 years, rereading this work, the wasteland is still like a pearl, shining with perseverance.
Wandering home, the heart follows nature.
The wilderness is foggy ...
Can't see the distance-
You can't see the past under clear skies.
The pine forest on the horizon,
Behind the pine forest
Chalk rocks sparkling in the sun;
Just faintly visible.
Gradually blurred
Grey-yellow winding roads,
On both sides of the road
Dark and dry fields ...
The fields are deserted-
Playing with the plowed clods,
Dead weeds,
Mixed with weeds
Rotten roots;
Exposed to the vast gray
Everywhere is a khaki and dark ochre.
Mixed with the color of burnt tea ...
-Just a few beds of radishes and vegetables.
There is frost on it.
Sparse green,
be dotted with
This is common, monotonous and simple.
And humble fields.
Those ponds are adjacent,
For the long drought
The water is about to dry up;
Under the opaque white light
Bend some hazel ones
Informal banks;
It used to be lush.
Aquatic plants and lotus leaves
It has settled at the bottom of the water;
Some fall behind.
Withered and bent branches,
Stand in a daze
In the steam rising slowly from the surface of the pool ...
The hillside is just ahead,
The road turns to the mountain,
With its ups and downs
Disappeared in the sparse forest below ...
On the hillside,
On both sides of the gray-yellow road,
Feel dark and worried
Only a few scattered graves,
And those who are about to be buried
Black stone tablet
Everything is like this.
Still, cold and lonely ...
Grey yellow and winding road!
People are walking, walking,
In different directions,
But it always seems to be guided by the same shadow,
End up in the same fate;
In the face of endless fatigue, hunger and cold
What awaits us is disaster, disease and death-
People wandering in the wilderness
Who has ever been happy?
however
Wilderness in winter
Is my own kind—
On the freezing frost,
I walked over those rugged ridges,
The edge of a barren pond,
And dark brown slopes,
The pace is so heavy that I feel embarrassed.
-Like cultivated land.
Like an old cow coming home exhausted. ...
And fog-
Gray and cloudy,
Lost and unpredictable,
It's in front of me
One is darker than the other.
Telephone poles and wires,
Open your heart to me
Infinite breadth and depth ...
You are sad and broad-minded,
Hard and poor wilderness ...
There is no sound,
Everything seems to be choked by fog;
Only over there.
In the invisible bushes,
There is a spread
protect against cold
Shaking feathers
The sound of birds ...
In the fence made of Artemisia and thorns
Several huts are crowded together—
They are all the same.
There is a pile of firewood by the wall.
Rags hung on the bamboo pole,
sigh
Endless futile efforts;
Cover the back of the house with frosted bark.
The smoke was weakly mixed in the fog,
Painted
Inevitable poverty ...
People are in those huts
What a miserable life this is …
The shadow of life hangs over them. ...
It seems that there will never be that day.
They breathe with livestock,
-Their beds are also like barns;
And those tattered quilts,
Like a pile of dirt.
It's dark and hard ...
Cold and hunger,
Stupidity and superstition,
In those huts.
Firmly established ...
Farmers from the fog
Pick up the bamboo basket and go,
There are only a few bundles of onions and garlic in the basket;
His felt hat was in tatters,
His face is as dirty as his clothes,
His chapped hands were frozen stiff.
Inserted in the waist bundle,
His bare feet
Set foot on the road of frost,
He silently said
Accompanied by a slight shoulder pole sound,
Slowly
Disappear in the fog ...
Wilderness-
You will always be worried and tolerant.
Uneven and silent?
The wilderness is thin and foggy …
1940 65438+1the morning of October 3rd.
Text/Ai Qing
contemporary writer
Famous poet
Personal pain and happiness,
Must be integrated into the bitterness and joy of the times.