Song of Bitter Cold
We climb the Taihang Mountain from the north;
The upward trek is harsh when we march forth.
The rough meandering footpaths twist and turn;
The wheel breakdowns bring us grave concern.
Before my eyes, the towering trees are moaning;
Above my head, the northern wind is groaning.
Bears large and small squat upon the trail;
Meanwhile tigers and leopards howl and wail.
Few people go into the deepest vales
When heavy snows enshroud the frozen dales.
At this sight, I heave an enormous sigh
Now that I know what zigzag treks imply.
Why am I in such a downcast mood?
About my journey home is what I brood.
When we face a river and no bridge is found,
We have to stop halfway and move around.
As we have moved around and lost our way,
Night will fall and we have nowhere to stay.
The farther in the mountains we go,
The more hungry men and horses grow.
The soldiers cut firewood from the trees
And cook the gruel with pieces of ice that freeze.
The Eastern Hill does not give me relief;
It is a poem that adds to my deep grief.
——by Wang Rongpei
|
