In the col, Baimian grass was dense.
Bathing wind and rain of many years,
My grandmother had her wish fulfilled.
She eternally slept into the col with my grandfather.
The geomantic omen of col was fine.
It's far away from developing of the city.
It had a southern exposure.
Its back leaned on a great reservoir.
A brown long and thin earthworm sometimes would
Show its ability outside the entrance of a mire hole.
And seemed to listen attentively to
A female wild duck's singing voice iｎ sex.
The rainfall was adequate this year.
Vegetation was pulled upward in succession.
Luckily some days before
My brother in Hongkong had used several hundred
HK$ to make way. So we could avoid friction and awkwardness
With Baimian stroking the face.
Imagine that it's time to autumn
There would be many purplish red Duoni wild fruits
All over the mountains and plains,
Hanging heavy on the stalks.
Fragrant and sweet,
Good to eat,
Quenching our thirst.
Satisfying a craving for good food.
Unconsciously our shoulders seemed to be light.
Our footsteps were slim and graceful.
Dear grandpa and grandma. We're coming.
We, your grandsons who had dozed off on your
knees in the childhood. |
And your grandsons' wives,
Great-grandsons and great-granddaughters in groups
Who had never met you before.
Our father and mother didn't come.
They silently entered to be aged.
They could not be competent at the heavy burden and
the long road.
The stars and the moon were too tired to come last
night.
On behalf of them, we gave their regards to you.
We had good incomes last year.
This year we would certainly have surplus.
Consecrated a pig head, a chicken,
In proper order, steamed buns, fruits, several cups
of tea and wine.
Also consecrated pieces of feelings
Which weren't sold in the supermarket.
A new stipulation of the government this year:
Smoking or lighting fires strictly forbidden on the
mountain.
Section Chief Brother waved his hand in symbol:
Insiders know well.
Joss sticks and candles are lit.
But paper money, paper gold and silver ingots
Won't be done absolutely.
Thereupon
There was coiling incense smoke in the whole col.
Yearning in our minds linger on faintly.
I, a poet of free verse, a good-for-nothing,
Longed for our grandparents, too.
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