GOLDEN RICE SHEAVES

Golden rice stands in sheaves
in the newly cut autumn field.
I think of many exhausted mothers,
I see rugged faces along the road at dusk.
On the day of harvest, a full moon hangs
atop the towering trees,
and in the twilight, distant mountains
approach my heart.
Nothing is more quiet than this, a statue,
shouldering so much weariness –
you lower your head in thought
in the autumn field that stretches afar.
Silence. Silence. History is nothing
but a small stream flowing under your feet.
And you stand over there,
becoming a thought of humanity.

金黄的稻束

金黄的稻束

金黄的稻束站在
割过的秋天的田里，
我想起无数个疲倦的母亲
黄昏的路上我看见那皱了的美丽的脸
收获日的满月在
高耸的树巅上
暮色里，远山是
围着我们的心边
没有一个雕像能比这更静默。
肩荷着那伟大的疲倦，你们
在这伸向远远的一片
秋天的田里低首沉思
静默。静默。历史也不过是
脚下一条流去的小河
而你们，站在那儿
将成了人类的一个思想。

1943