2010年5月5日星期三

The Lost Site

Following a winding little road in the depression of the mountain and encountering a past village.

And even in the hearths or sleeping areas, trees thicker than chimneys are growing. Maybe it was a lively village: children, pigs, cows, chickens, dogs all placed together in front of the houses, women rising with the chimney smoke, men carrying large trees trunks home . . . . . and today there are only a few dilapidated, incomplete walls covered with grass that allow one to scarcely imagine this scene.

Maybe it was a plague, a fire, or some other kind of disaster. The Moqpil's incantations and the village center's spirit tree could not protect the village's peace, tranquility. After divining with bones, eggs, chopsticks, the oldest man in the village said:

“ Let us go . . . . . .”

Then the men quietly departed, the women weeping departed, carrying the infants that have not yet seen the outside world, leading beasts of burden, cattle and horses. This sorrowful group of far wanderers look back with each step until reaching that lovable home ever beyond the horizon . . . . . .

But in this world, where can one find a place of peace and quiet? Today, I still don't know to where they went. Nor do I know how many elders are buried, how many children were born, how many festive days were passed here. I only see silent trees, reticent stones and dilapidated walls; the wind blows through without sound.

Gebu 哥布
from Lost Site
Hani poet from China's Southwest

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