来去匆匆
也许燕子已经飞去，却终有归来之时；也许柳树已经枯槁，却终有再绿的一天；也许桃花已经凋零，但是它们终会再开花；现在,聪明的你，请告诉我，为什么我们的日子总会离我们远去，不再回头？如果他们被一个人藏起来了，那他会是谁?他能把日子藏在哪儿？如果如果它们逃脱了束缚，那么此时他们又在哪里？
我不知道自己曾被赐予了多少时间，可我却真真切切的感觉两手越来越空。默默的盘算着我所拥有的时光。我发觉八千多天的日子已经从我身边溜走。我的日子缓缓汇入了时间的河流，就像针尖上的一滴水消失在无垠的大海，无声无息。无影无踪。不知不觉，汗水挂上了我的前额，泪水溢满了我的眼眶。
已经远去的早已奔赴美好的前程，将要到来的继续着前行的脚步，然而，这其间的转换为何如此之快，如此行色匆匆？当我起床时，阳光斜射入在我的小屋，留下斑驳的痕迹以证明它的存在。阳光有脚丫，瞧，它正踩着轻盈的步伐偷偷前行着，而我呢，茫然看着它的轮转，就这样，在我洗手时，日子在我洗手的水槽里流走。当我吃饭时，日子在我吃饭的碗里流走，当我作白日梦深深思索时，它在我的凝望里默默离去。现在我分明感觉到了它的急速，于是我伸出手想把它拉回，但它却依然从我紧握的双手里流走。夜里，我躺在床上，它敏捷地跨过我的身体，滑过我的双脚。当我睁开双眼再次见到阳光时，一天已经过去了。我掩住了脸，深深的叹了口气。在这叹气之中，新的日子又一闪而过了。
在这个喧闹的世界里，面对时间的流逝，我能做什么？不是犹豫，就是奋起直追。而在这已经消失的八千多的日子中，除了犹豫不决，我还做过什么？这些过去的时光已经像烟雾般被一阵轻风吹散，或是像雨露般被清晨的阳光照耀到蒸发。我曾经留下了什么踪迹？我留下了任何细微的踪迹了吗？我赤裸裸来到这世界,是否转眼间也将赤裸裸地回去？不公平的是：为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？
聪明的你，告诉我，为什么我们的日子总是离我们远去，却不再回头？
RUSH
Swallows may have gone, but
there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but
there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but
they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our
days leave us, never to return? — If they had been stolen by
someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had
made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the
moment?
I don't know how many days I
have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty.
Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days
have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point
of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into
the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting
on my forehead, and tears welling up in my
eyes.
Those that have gone have gone
for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is
the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the
slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three
oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and
furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus — the
day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in
the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming
gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach
out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my
withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over
my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open
my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my
face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash
past in the sigh.
What can I do, in this
bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to
hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that
eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days
have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist
by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever
left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world,
stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark
nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a
trip for nothing!
You the wise, tell me, why
should our days leave us, never to return?
加载中…
(2022-06-09 07:37:48)