风 | 午后，被一阵突如其来的风感动

我躺在椅子上，

风从前门进来，轻轻掠过，又从后门出去，

带着远古的花香和儿时的记忆。 

那是一股熟悉的风，

带着熟悉的味道，

轻轻抚过我的每一根毛发，

带着春的凉意。

它从哪里来？

为何如此熟悉——

熟悉到我忽然想起，

儿时的大树底下，

斑驳的树影，一阵一阵微风，

把盛夏切成一段一段的清凉。

你要去哪里？

它不回答。

只是从我身上经过，

像从前经过那个孩子一样。

它一路向西，

越过重重山峦的褶皱，

在那里变得稀薄、清冷，

掠过松林和雪峰，

在山谷之间回响自己的回声；

又继续向前，

落入广袤的平原，

卷起尘土与草香，

与陌生的风交汇、分散，

像人群中短暂的相遇；

它被更大的气流带走，

掠过大洋深处的辽阔，

在海面上变得潮湿而温柔，

裹挟着盐味与远方的湿气，

在浪与浪之间学会更长久的流动；

它去过看不见的地方——

穿过夜晚的城市，

掠过灯光与玻璃，

听过无人说出口的叹息；

也去过时间更久远的地方——

在某一片荒野，

擦过早已不存在的花，

带走一点气味，

却不知道那是曾经。

然后，在某一个不经意的午后，它又回来了。

从另一扇门，或者某个没有门的方向。

它还是那样轻，那样冷，

那样不知疲倦地经过。

它，还是它。

而我，早已暮色沉沉。

它再次掠过我，

吹起我的斑驳白发，

抚摸我的皱纹，

它带着一声叹息，

接着向西而行。

像什么都不曾停留，

也什么都没有带走。

只有我知道——

它走了一圈世界，

而我，走完了一生的黄昏。

The Wind

I lie in my chair, A breeze enters through the front door, grazing me softly, Leaving through the back, Carrying ancient floral scents and childhood echoes.

It is a familiar wind, With a familiar scent, Gently stroking every hair on my skin, Laden with the cool crispness of spring.

Where does it come from? Why so familiar— So familiar that I suddenly recall, The mottled shadows beneath the great tree of my youth, Where gusts cut the midsummer into slices of cool relief.

Where are you going? It does not answer. It only passes through me, As it once passed through that child long ago.

It heads west, Crossing the folds of heavy mountain ranges, Growing thin and cold amidst the peaks, Brushing through pine forests and snow, Echoing its own voice within the valleys.

Onward it goes, Descending into the vast plains, Stirring dust and the fragrance of grass, Meeting and parting with stranger winds, Like fleeting encounters in a crowd.

Caught in a greater current, It skims the vastness of the deep ocean, Becoming damp and tender upon the waves, Clinging to the salt and the distant mist, Learning the long, rhythmic flow between the crests.

It has been to places unseen— Through the night-clad cities, Gazing at lights and glass, Listening to sighs never whispered aloud.

It has been to times more distant— In some forgotten wilderness, Brushing past flowers that no longer exist, Carrying a hint of scent, Unaware that it belongs to what once was.

Then, on a casual afternoon, It returns. From another door, Or from a direction without a door at all.

It is still so light, So cold, Passing through with such tireless grace.

The wind is still the wind. But I— Am already steeped in twilight.

It brushes past me again, Stirring my mottled white hair, Caressing my wrinkles, With a soft sigh, It continues its journey to the west.

As if nothing ever stayed, And nothing was ever taken away.

Only I know— The wind has circled the world, While I, Have walked through the twilight of a lifetime.