——第十八层地狱之上，还有一层，名曰“人间”
作者：鲁慧文
黑夜没有月亮。
只有一座山。
那不是山。
那是一具具骸骨，
一层压着一层，
一代埋着一代。
风吹过时，
千万颗牙齿彼此碰撞，
发出窸窸窣窣的笑。
守门的恶鬼说：
这里没有坟墓。
因为整片土地，都是坟墓。
第一阵风吹来，
吹散的是三年饥荒。
白骨披着破布，
肚腹深陷，
眼窝里爬满乌鸦。
他们低着头，
捧着树皮，
捧着泥土，
捧着观音土，
最后，
捧起了自己的骨头。
他们没有哭。
死人不会哭。
第二阵风吹来，
吹来十年文革。
无数白骨没有头颅，
因为头，
早已低到尘埃里。
书本烧成灰，
灰落在人骨上；
名字刻成罪，
罪刻进棺木里。
父亲举起骨棒，
砸向儿子；
学生踩碎老师的肋骨；
朋友把朋友推进火堆。
恶鬼哈哈大笑：
这里最锋利的刀，
从来不是铁，
而是人。
第三阵风吹来，
吹来一场又一场运动。
“三反”、“五反”。
一具具骷髅排成长街，
他们脖子上挂着木牌，
脚下踩着自己的影子。
有人跳下高楼，
有人吊死梁间，
有人活着，
却把魂魄留在了昨天。
他们不知道，
下一个轮到谁。
因为这里，
昨天的刽子手，
明天也是尸体。
第四阵风吹来，
六月四日。
鲜血没有流进河，
却流进了历史最黑的井。
年轻的白骨，
仍保持着奔跑的姿势。
他们伸着手，
像是要抓住黎明。
可抓住的，
只有子弹。
直到今天，
他们仍站在那里，
每到深夜，
骨头便会慢慢站起，
继续向前。
只是，
再也没有脚步声。
第五阵风吹来，
风里全是婴儿的哭声。
没有名字。
没有墓碑。
没有出生。
只有一只只苍白的小手，
不断从泥土里伸出，
抓住经过的人。
他们问：
娘，我为什么不能来到这个世界？
没有人回答。
回答他们的，
只有铁门，
标语，
和手术室冰冷的灯。
于是，
越来越多。
越来越多。
越来越多。
白骨堆满山川，
头骨漂满江河，
肋骨长成树林，
脊椎化作长城。
每一块土地，
踩下去，
都会传来骨头断裂的声音。
咔。
咔。
咔。
那不是石头。
那是无数亡魂，
在地下翻身。
他们没有离开，
他们只是一直躺在那里。
等着后来的人，
从他们身上走过去，
忘记他们，
踩碎他们，
再把新的白骨，
堆到旧的白骨之上。
于是，
山越来越高，
夜越来越黑。
恶鬼站在白骨山巅，
望着人间，
缓缓摘下自己的鬼面。
面具下面，
竟是一张人的脸。
编辑：Geoffrey 校对：熊辩 翻译：沈美花
Heaps of White Bones
—Above the eighteenth layer of hell, there lies another layer, named “The Human Realm.”
Author :Lu Huiwen
The night has no moon.
Only a mountain.
That is not a mountain.
It is skeleton upon skeleton,
One layer pressing against another,
One generation buried over another.
When the wind blows through,
Tens of thousands of teeth collide,
Issuing rustling, whispering laughter.
The gatekeeping demon says:
There are no graves here.
Because the entire land is a grave.
The first gust of wind blows in,
Blowing away three years of famine.
White bones draped in tattered rags,
Stomachs deeply sunken,
Eye sockets crawling with crows.
They bow their heads,
Holding tree bark in their hands,
Holding dirt,
Holding Guanyin clay,
And finally,
Holding their own bones.
They did not cry.
The dead do not cry.
The second gust of wind blows in,
Blowing in ten years of the Cultural Revolution.
Countless white bones have no heads,
Because their heads
Were long ago pressed low into the dust.
Books burn into ash,
The ash falls upon human bones;
Names are inscribed into crimes,
Crimes are carved into coffins.
Fathers raise bone clubs,
Striking their own sons;
Students trample and shatter their teachers’ ribs;
Friends push friends into the fires.
The demon laughs out loud:
The sharpest blade here
Has never been iron,
It has always been human.
The third gust of wind blows in,
Blowing in political movement after movement.
The “Three-Anti” and “Five-Anti” campaigns.
Skeletons stand in long lines along the streets,
Wooden signs hanging around their necks,
Shadows beneath their feet.
Some leapt from high buildings,
Some hanged themselves from roof beams,
Some survived,
Yet left their souls trapped in yesterday.
They did not know
Who would be next.
Because here,
Yesterday’s executioner
Is tomorrow’s corpse.
The fourth gust of wind blows in,
The Fourth of June.
Fresh blood did not flow into the rivers,
It flowed into the darkest well of history.
Young white bones
Still maintain a running posture.
They reach out their hands,
As if trying to grasp the dawn.
Yet all they grasp
Are bullets.
To this day,
They still stand there.
Every midnight,
The bones slowly stand up,
Continuing to charge forward.
Only,
There are no longer any footsteps.
The fifth gust of wind blows in,
Filled entirely with the cries of babies.
No names.
No gravestones.
No births.
Only pale little hands,
Continuously reaching out from the dirt,
Grabbing at passersby.
They ask:
Mother, why couldn’t I come into this world?
No one answers.
The only answer to them
Is the iron gate,
The slogans,
And the cold lights of the operating room.
And so,
More and more.
More and more.
More and more.
White bones cover the mountains and rivers,
Skulls float across rivers and lakes,
Ribs grow into forests,
Spines turn into the Great Wall.
On every piece of land,
Stepping down
Will bring the sound of breaking bones.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Those are not stones.
Those are countless lost souls,
Turning over beneath the earth.
They have not left,
They have simply been lying there all along.
Waiting for those who come after
To walk across their bodies,
To forget them,
To trample them to pieces,
And then stack new white bones
On top of the old ones.
And so,
The mountain grows higher and higher,
The night grows darker and darker.
The demon stands at the peak of the mountain of white bones,
Gazing down upon the human realm,
Slowly taking off his demon mask.
Underneath the mask,
Is unexpectedly a human face.
Editor: Geoffrey
Proofreader: Xiong Bian
Translator: Shen Meihua
