馮靜為你讀《匆匆 Transient Days》

　　匆匆

　　作者: 朱自清

　　燕子去了，有再來(lái)的時(shí)候;楊柳枯了，有再青的時(shí)候;桃花謝了，有再開(kāi)的時(shí)候。但是，聰明的，你告訴我，我們的日子為什么一去不復(fù)返呢?——是有人偷了他們罷：那是誰(shuí)?又藏在何處呢?是他們自己逃走了罷：現(xiàn)在又到了哪里呢?

　　我不知道他們給了我多少日子;但我的手確乎是漸漸空虛了。在默默里算著，八千多日子已經(jīng)從我手中溜去;像針尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在時(shí)間的流里，沒(méi)有聲音，也沒(méi)有影子。我不禁頭涔涔而淚潸潸了。

　　去的盡管去了，來(lái)的盡管來(lái)著;去來(lái)的.中間，又怎樣地匆匆呢?早上我起來(lái)的時(shí)候，小屋里射進(jìn)兩三方斜斜的太陽(yáng)。太陽(yáng)他有腳啊，輕輕悄悄地挪移了;我也茫茫然跟著旋轉(zhuǎn)。于是——洗手的時(shí)候，日子從水盆里過(guò)去;吃飯的時(shí)候，日子從飯碗里過(guò)去;默默時(shí)，便從凝然的雙眼前過(guò)去。我覺(jué)察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽時(shí)，他又從遮挽著的手邊過(guò)去，天黑時(shí)，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地從我身上跨過(guò)，從我腳邊飛去了。等我睜開(kāi)眼和太陽(yáng)再見(jiàn)，這算又溜走了一日。我掩著面嘆息。但是新來(lái)的日子的影兒又開(kāi)始在嘆息里閃過(guò)了。

　　在逃去如飛的日子里，在千門(mén)萬(wàn)戶(hù)的世界里的我能做些什么呢?只有徘徊罷了，只有匆匆罷了;在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢?過(guò)去的日子如輕煙，被微風(fēng)吹散了，如薄霧，被初陽(yáng)蒸融了;我留著些什么痕跡呢?我何曾留著像游絲樣的痕跡呢?我赤裸裸來(lái)到這世界，轉(zhuǎn)眼間也將赤裸裸的回去罷?但不能平的，為什么偏要白白走這一遭啊?

　　你聰明的，告訴我，我們的日子為什么一去不復(fù)返呢?

　　Transient Days

　　Zhu Ziqing

　　If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have beenstolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhapsthey have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?

　　I don't know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them isundoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the streamof time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from myforehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.

　　What isgone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the translation inbetween! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or threesquarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in itsrevolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands;vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before thefixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my outstretchedhands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body andflits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again,another day is already gone. I have a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, inthe midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past.

　　Living inthis world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waverand wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps ofsmoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, noteven gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in thetwinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this worldfor nothing at all?

　　O you thewise, would you please tell me: why should our days go by never to return?

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