Ya Xian
The wind of Xuantong that year blew
the string of red corn
It hung
under the eaves, as if the whole north
the whole north's melancholy
hung there
just like some afternoon when playing truant
snow made Mr. Xue's ruler. Some of the dead have gone to Beijing and haven't come back yet
It's like asking my brother's gourd to hide in a cotton robe
It's a little bleak, a little warm
And the copper ring rolled over the post
Seeing grandma's buckwheat field from a distance
and cried
That's the kind of red corn
hanging. For a long time
under the eaves
the wind of Xuantong was blowing
you'll never know
the red corn like that
the posture it hangs there
and its color
neither does my daughter born in the south
nor does Valhallen
as if I were old now
.
December 19th, 1957
When the wind blew through the red corn in Xuantong that year, I must have been wearing a big-breasted thick cotton-padded jacket, and I walked barefoot through the bumpy path on the farm yard in the cool wind, timidly longing for warmth and softness, quiet and unobtrusive, but crying inside. It was so quiet that I didn't even know what I was crying about at that time.
Is it Ya Xian's poems that describe the melancholy, desolation and warmth of the countryside in western Henan? Or am I an old soul, and I passed by this bard in Nanyang County in my previous life? Staggered by, walking the road of their own destiny.
that string of red corn also hangs in my eyes, under the eaves in my eyes. Golden corn leaves are lined with red corn cobs, which are quiet and rich red in autumn. However, because of loneliness, long history, long absence from home and homelessness, red corn hangs in the eyes one after another, bringing people joy, but more melancholy.
I can see the corn, the eaves, the old house and me in front of it. I am wearing a pigtail and a gown. Melancholy is greater than joy because there are no adults, and I don't know where the adults are and where I can find lasting warmth. Ya Xian rolled the hoop over the post and cried when he saw grandma's buckwheat field. I was walking on a road that had no beginning and no end. I didn't know where I came from or where I was going. It rained and flooded my path, and the water poured into my shoes. I stood there and cried.
Red corn is hanging there, in Ya Xian, it is home; For me, it is a possible home, or a home that should be. So, am I more miserable than Ya Xian? I feel sorry for myself.
daughters born in the south don't understand, and neither does any girl named Harun. Every day my brother doesn't understand, and neither does Douglas. Will my sister understand a little? Her grown-up mother was still sobbing for a poem called "Red Corn" one day in 2 years.