你不回头
你的旅行车驶进太阳里，太阳五年不再回来。
风依然吹着小步舞曲。
将落日的光环挽在肩上，越来越庞然沉重的影子领我，慢慢回家。
经过你家的小巷口，石条路还是那么湿漉漉，不时从黑糊糊的门洞传出泼水声。一辆走过很长旅途的红色自行车，斜倚在广告牌前寻求休息，时髦女郎脸蛋脏兮兮地微笑着。锅铲刺耳地刮着铁锅，油烟和卤鸭的香味顺着一盏浊灯弥漫开来，夜摊上市了。
被遗弃的最后一抹余晖，还在犹豫，终于不胜悲哀地沿着水锈和苔斑的高墙游走，没有谁挽留。
三十五年来，你从蹒跚学步到青春期白跑鞋的舞步终于走出了这条狭窄的小巷，走向一片开阔的港口。
你真的不回头吗?
啊，你不回头是因为小巷所洞悉的你的幻灭的往事你不愿带走?
你不回头是由于斑斓的霓虹灯旋开一圈圈“伦巴”、“探戈”，你天性无法接纳清一色的月光?
你不回头是由于危楼峰耸宛若一口口陷阱你宁可挺直脖子?
你不回头……
你不回头……
黄昏的记忆真是拥挤呀。
四月，太平岩，我们在泉水边。你衔着一根草茎，断断续续哼着一支《土拨鼠》，这是一支欢快、幽默的小曲子，它跟四月的阳光、鸟鸣、水声是那样和谐，但从开着星星点点小黄花的草丛里望过去，你双肘撑在地上，一双又黑又大的眼睛盛满痛苦、柔情和怅惘。
我们都知道你，如脚边澈清的泉水、倏忽的鱼影，朗朗可见;我们无法知道你，藏匿于“黑箱”深处的凄楚，时时引吭为优雅的男高音。
因此我曾经请求：“要哭泣你就哭泣吧，让泪水流啊，流啊，默默地……”
现在没有人为我歌唱轻轻，即使满眼是泪，繁华大街，车水马龙，哪里寻一处林子、一片草地，在真挚与渠通的日光下失声痛哭?
这个黄昏是多么陌生啊!
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.
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!
口译： 翻译资格考试二级口译模拟题
笔译： 翻译资格考试二级笔译模拟题
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