Reading “October 19th” — 1977.05.16–17; 1981.12.17
I read it with a faint sadness,
Astonished that the words I wished to say
Had already been spoken by him long ago.
My Muse fell silent, yet I felt no pain—
Only a heartfelt cheer for his immortality.
Ah, friends, read Pushkin.
On the monument of “October 19th”
Are carved my heart and the words
I longed to speak to you.
After April 9th, what more could I hope to write?
Yet the demon of poetry keeps me from sleep,
Forcing me to sing an elegy for yesterday—
To sing of our many years of silent friendship,
To mourn the many years of silence within it.
I do not wish to reopen the past,
Nor would you necessarily want me to recall it.
I only let the small streams of feeling
Flow warmly into your hearts.
Friends, perhaps we have parted forever,
But who can bind the wings of thought?
It will chase the fading light of the past,
Rushing through every street and alley.
My classmates, where are you all now?
And you—the student who refused to serve the Muse—
You copied Pushkin into your notebook
Only to kill every idle minute.
That was when I did not understand Pushkin,
Thinking he merely sang of love.
But today I no longer wonder why
Your delicate hands could not turn that heavy wheel.
Ah, you—my “Delvig”—
Are you still singing by the banks of the Chaobai River?
We have long ceased writing to each other,
Yet between our hearts there is no barrier at all.
And you, the silent ox—
Forgive my rudeness and pride.
Friends have given me a woman’s reserve,
And the Muse has given me this cold sword.
Yet deep within my soul
Your dignity remains untouched.
I will never forget the pain you suffered in vain,
Nor your noble, silent four years.
Sitting under the lamp, I think of them—
Soldiers, workers, teachers, clerks, and farmers.
Do they, like me, still have the fortune
To remember often that moment of parting?
I still wish to visit my teachers
When they are sick at home.
Is there even one bird with full plumage
That would visit them to bring comfort?
Friends, whenever I recall the past,
I see the buds of friendship unopened—
Struck down by sudden wind and snow,
Withered by the early frost.
I know that childishness often leads to mistakes—
Sometimes treating play with solemnity,
Sometimes treating solemn things as play.
Thus we brewed jars of bitter honey.
Though things were as they were,
I can never forgive myself.
But I beg for your forgiveness
For the sake of that brief friendship.
If we once studied together,
If we once struggled together,
Yet left behind no beautiful memories—
Can we truly be at peace with that faint sorrow?
I want to embrace you with my verses,
Though some already dislike me,
Perhaps even with hatred.
But my poetry belongs to all of you.
I love life—the sky with its cheerful clarity,
The sea with its deep emotion,
The earth with its open heart.
I love all things beautiful, and thus
Can forgive the world’s unnecessary tragedies.
I want to dedicate my poetry to you,
Though some have lost their sensitivity
And can no longer savor
The pleasant rhythms rich with beauty.
I want to sing of our youth,
Though some hearts have already withered.
I have offered my song with devotion—
And I am content, filled with quiet joy.
Friends, for you I offer blessings, not hopes,
For each person’s path is different.
But I place my hand upon my heart and pray
That each of you reaches your place of dreams.
(Note: April 9th was the day, after high school graduation, when we were sent to the countryside as educated youth.)
Of course — if you’re posting it on My Poeticside and don’t have time to translate, I can translate it for you right now, smoothly and poetically, in a way that preserves the spirit of your original Chinese version.
Here is a polished English translation that fits the tone and style of My Poeticside:
CH-13 闪电消失了 197705xx
Lightning has vanished.
It hides deep in the vault of heaven,
turning into a cluster of shimmering stars,
like a silver bouquet.
Yet that moment of brilliance
lingers long within my heart.
The night sky’s curtain turns iron‑blue,
the old trees tremble in terror.
That blue‑edged blade of lightning
split open the shadowed gorge,
howling like a sudden, furious wind,
bringing back a beam of sunlight.
It washed the earth in dazzling white,
held back the departing day,
like a seeker of truth
who keeps the candle burning deep into the night.
Look — it shakes its silver dress,
spinning and leaping in light steps.
Listen — it bursts into laughter,
singing and shouting in wild delight.
This tiny, boiling, sleepless city of sparks
holds endless life and happiness.