作品原文

肖凤 《鸟巢》

水泥浇铸成的塔楼和板楼，鳞次栉比，远远望去，仿佛是陡峭垂直的群山，构成了大城市的独特风景线。然而它们的造型，僵硬呆板，不像大自然的山峦，鬼斧神工，有着美妙的线条，蕴含着迷人的神韵。

不过，生活在北京市的平民百姓，如果能够在这灰色的或者绿色的，或者别的什么颜色的高楼里，拥有一个属于自己的空间，不论是大是小，只要它是独立的，能够无拘无束地生活着，也就满足了。

有时走在马路上，仰首遥望居住的那座楼宇，找到第17层那几扇属于自己和自己亲人的窗户，就觉得那个叫作“家”的地方，其实更像一个“鸟巢”。因为它方方正正，像一个匣子，虽然它被夹在第16层与第18层之间，却总是觉得它好像是被高高地吊在半空中，上不着天，下不着地。作为人类的家园，它似乎是太高了一点儿。

因此常常羡慕鸟儿，它们能够自由自在地飞翔，如果它们把巢筑在第17层上面，也能舒展开自己的双翼，款款地飞回去。而且还能站在自己的巢里，优哉游哉地鸟瞰人群。可是我没有翅膀，如果我要回到自己的“鸟巢”，必须借助楼里的电梯。而电梯又受制于电的有无，或有没有故障（它常有故障），以及开电梯的小姐是否坐在岗位上。不像鸟儿那般自由，一切由它自己做主，想要出门就出门，想要归巢就归巢。

坐在窗前的写字台前伏案工作，忽然听见“咕，咕，咕”的悦耳声音，抬头一望，原来是两只白色的鸽子站在窗外的窗沿上，正在亲昵地对话。我不愿惊扰它们，便静静地坐在那里，欣赏它们的漂亮形体与温柔姿态。它们亲热地谈得够了，就会转过小巧的头颅，用它们那双明亮的小眼睛，与我对视。每逢这时，我就很想告诉它们，我是多么地喜欢鸽子，毕加索笔下的那只名鸽，其实远不如真实的鸽子美丽。我还会产生错觉，不知是这对鸽子还是自己，正住在“鸟巢”里，也不知我与它们是否同类。它们的小脑袋里想些什么，我一无所知，反正是等到它们留连得够了，就展翅飞翔，飞回到属于它们自己的巢里，那个鸟巢比我的“鸟巢”平方米略少，不过也是悬在半空，悬在对面那座塔楼的一家住户的阳台上。

除了鸽子之外，也有麻雀造访我的窗台。或者一只，或者两只，或者更多。它们叽叽喳喳，跳跳蹦蹦，全然不顾有人正从窗户的另一面望着它们，很像一群喜爱游玩的活泼孩子。它们的家不知筑在何处，好像比鸽子的家距离远些。
这些客人光顾我的“鸟巢”，让第17层的高空有了魅力。有时站在窗户里面向外望去，常常看见鸟儿们在窗外飞翔，这种景象使自己几乎忘记了是被围困在水泥筑成的方格子里。

可是，只要俯首下望，大城市的单调景色就会一目了然——马路很像一条灰色的带子，形形色色的汽车和无轨电车像大大小小的甲壳虫，慢慢地向前蠕动，很久才能走到视线之外。近处是深灰色的屋顶，远处是层层叠叠的楼群。

绿色的树木像珍宝，令人爱不释“目”，使人更加向往大自然。很想变成一只鸟，从这座“鸟巢”中飞出去，飞到森林中去，飞到大海边去，飞到崇山峻岭中去，飞到一切有花有草有树有水，唯独没有水泥和汽车尾气的地方去，去享受一下没有污染的清新空气，去享受一下没有噪音的宁静氛围，去享受一下没有撒过漂白粉的清澈溪水，去寻找一个没有是非，没有烦扰，没有摩擦，没有争权夺利，没有勾心斗角，没有尔虞我诈的干净去处。

作品译文

The Bird’s Nest
Xiao Feng

Rows of cement tower buildings and prefabs, looking from afar like groups of steep mountains, are a unique sight in big cities. They are stiff and stereotyped in form, unlike real mountains which a masterwork of nature with beautiful lines and implicit enchanting grace.

Nevertheless, the common people of Beijing will be content with housing accommodation, big or small, in a high-rise of gray, green or any other color, where they can enjoy the ease and privacy of their own home.

Sometimes, while strolling in the street, I raise my head to gaze far ahead at the building where I live. As I identify the windows of my family on the 17th floor, I realize what we call our “home” is in fact more like a “bird’s nest”. It’s cubical like a box. Sandwiched in between the 16th and 18th floor, it’s still like something hanging high up in midair, touching neither the sky nor the earth. Apparently, it’s a bit too high for a human domicile.

Therefore, I often envy birds their ability to fly freely. If they had a nest built on the 17th floor of our building, they could also fly back to it light-heartedly and then stand enjoying a leisurely view of crowds milling about in the streets. But, unfortunately, I have no wings. So I have to use the elevator in the building to get back to my “nest”. And, mind you, that depends upon the uninterrupted supply of electric power, the trouble-free condition of the elevator (which often has troubles) and the presence of the girl elevator operator on duty. Unlike birds, I can’t always act as I think fit, leaving or coming back to my “nest” freely as I please.

Sometimes, sitting at my desk before the window, I will suddenly hear a soft cooing sound and, looking up, I find a pair of white doves billing and cooing on the outer windowsill. Unwilling to alarm them, I will sit quietly admiring their elegant shape and gentle carriage. At the end of their rendezvous, they will turn their heads and exchange stares with me, their tiny eyes glistening. I will, on such occasions, be very eager to let them know how I love doves and that the famous dove painted by Picasso is far less beautiful than real doves. I will feel confused as to who should be the real dweller of the “nest”—the pair of doves or me, and whether we are of the same kind. I don’t know what thoughts they have in their tiny brains. Anyway, after enjoying themselves to their heart’s content, they will fly back to the nest of their own. It is somewhat smaller than mine by several square meters, but it is also hanging in midair, over the balcony of a residence in the opposite tower building.

In addition to doves, sparrows also frequent my windowsill. They will come singly, in pairs or groups, chirping and hopping about like playful kids, totally impervious to any peeper behind the window. The whereabouts of their home is unknown, but apparently it is farther than that of doves.

The visit of these guests to my “nest” has lent great charm to the 17th floor. Often, when I see birds flying beyond my window, I will forget I am living in the prison cell of a cement-poured home.
But, if I stoop to look down, I’ll see immediately how insipid the city is. The streets stretch like grey ribbons. It takes quite a while for cars of all descriptions and trolleybuses to move along slowly like beetles of various sizes until they are out of sight. Nearer in sight are dull grey rooftops, and farther on stand row upon row of buildings.

Green trees are so lovely that we can scarcely take our eyes off them. I wish I could become a bird so that I could fly off from this “nest” to the forest, the sea, the mountain, or to any place with flowers, grass, trees and water, but without cement and tail exhaust. It would be a place where I could enjoy unpolluted fresh air, quiet atmosphere free from noise-pollution, pure water from a limpid brook. It would be a clean space without discord, disturbance, friction, scramble for power and gain, intrigue and mutual deception.