A Meditation on Spring

Zhang Xiaofeng translated by Rumin Wang

There must have been such a scene for spring:

Snow, on the top of a mountain with hidden green, could not keep its shape anymore, smiled with chuckle, turning its cold face into flowery one; it sang gurgling from clouds to foothills, from foothills to artless villages, into twig fences, yellow feet of a little duck, mud - as soft as a new quilt.

So effeminate, sensitive, but that illegible and boundless. An innocent thunder could offend all the clouds to tear; a long cuckoo cries could irritate all the cuckoo flowers in the city to bloom. With a gust of wind, willows chant out flying catkins - white and light, which no one could understand; every flake of flying catkin was a semicolon of a willow. Sure, spring is so unreasonable, illogical, but still good enough to set us at ease.

Spring must have such a scene:

In a pond, an aged stem are defended by dried-up branches with dim leaves and withered flowers; a roof beam in the north, attacked and disturbed by wind and snow, maternally holds a small empty swallow nest. But one day, peach blossoms suddenly occupy all the villages and river banks, willows control all the imperial moats and civil rivers. Like an elite division with a bright flag, spring beauties up as long prayerful wishes.

About the name "spring", there must have been such a story:

Before Book of Songs and Book of History, even before word formation, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when cropping grasses; a kid suddenly felt kite's soaring when flying it; a leg, pained from wind stroking all days long, suddenly felt stretched; thousands of snow-white hands suddenly felt spirituality of water when washing by brook, pond and river... All of them started running to tell each other surprisingly, when they decided to name the season by putting their mouths into a shape as if they were whistling and with a pleasant whispery voice, as "Spring".

Birds start to measure the sky, some for blueness, some for transparency, others for height and depth with their wings. But all the birds aren't good mathematicians. They count and check with gibberish, but have no courage to announce their statistics.

Butterflies are appointed to count flowers, bees are assigned to compile flower buds, wind is asked to dote upon trees; and wind itself, is to be memorized and inquired by the old windbells in the front of cottages.

Spring must have been this, or is till this somewhere. Through the black forest with chimneys, I'd like to visit the spring which was wandering in far back ages.

（原文）春之怀古--张晓风

春天必然曾经是这样。从绿意内敛的山头，一把雪再也撑不住了。噗嗤一声，将冷脸笑成花面。一首澌澌然的歌便从云端唱到山麓，从山麓唱到低低的荒村，唱入篱落，唱入一只小鸭的黄蹼，唱入软溶溶的春泥，软如一床新翻的棉被的春泥。

那样娇，那样敏感，却又那样浑沌无涯。一声雷，可以无端地惹哭满天的云，一阵杜鹃啼，可以斗急了一城杜鹃花。一阵风起，每一棵柳都吟出一则则白茫茫，虚飘飘，说也说不清，听也听不清的飞絮，每一丝飞絮都是一株柳的分号。反正，春天就是这样不讲理，不逻辑，而仍可以好得让人心平气和的。

春天必然会是这样：满塘叶黯花残的枯梗抵死枯守一截老棍，北地里千宅万户的屋梁受尽风侵雪扰犹自温柔地抱一团小小的空虚的燕巢。然后，突然有一天，桃花把所有的山村水廓都攻陷了。柳树把皇室的御沟和民间的江头都控制了。春天有如旌旗鲜明的王师，因长期虔诚的企盼祝祷而美丽起来。

关于春天的名字，必然曾经有这样的一段故事：在《诗经》之前，在《尚书》之前，在仓颉造字之前，一只小羊在啮草时猛然感到的多汁，一个小孩在放风筝时猛然感到的飞腾，一只患风痛的腿在猛然间感到的舒活，千千万万双素手，在溪畔，在塘畔，在江畔浣纱的手所猛然感到的水的血脉……当他们惊讶地奔走互告的时候，他们决定将嘴噘成吹口哨的形状，用一种愉快的耳语的声量来为这季节命名：“春”。

鸟又可以丈量天空了。有的负责丈量天的蓝度，有的负责丈量天的透明度，有的负责用那只翼丈量天的高度和深度。而所有的鸟全不是好的数学家，他们叽叽喳喳地算了又算，核了又核，终于还是不敢宣布统计数字。

至于所有的花，已交给蝴蝶去点数。所有的蕊，交给蜜蜂去编册。所有的树交给风去纵宠。而风，交给檐前的老风铃去一一记忆，一一垂询。

春天必然曾经这样，或者，在什么地方，它仍然是这样的吧？穿越烟囱与烟囱的黑森林，我想走访那踯躅在湮远年代的春天。