《被雾托起》

《被雾托起》

雾在田野上缓缓散开，

像一层夜里遗落的薄薄记忆。

你在泥土深处轻轻亮起，

一粒光在黑暗里醒来。

风从远处走来，

绕着你转了一圈又一圈，

带着尚未说出的梦。

大地的呼吸从脚下升起，

温度在你体内慢慢聚拢。

叶脉上的水珠垂着，

像一只安静的眼睛，

望着你成形、改变。

时间在你周围变软。

白昼把银色纹路铺满你，

夜晚让虫鸣紧贴着你，

听你体内微弱的回声。

你轻轻膨胀，

像黎明在暗处鼓起。

你的轮廓在风里摇晃，

悬在半空的一盏小灯，

随时会飘进另一层世界。

土壤深处传来细小的声响，

一层，又一层。

你静静立着，

光在你体内聚拢成一束秘密。

那个只属于你的清晨，

正悄悄到来。

Lifted by Mist

Mist loosens slowly across the field,
a thin memory
left behind by the night.

Deep beneath the soil,
you begin to glow—
a grain of light waking in the dark.

Wind drifts in from afar,
circling you
again and again,
bearing dreams
still unspoken.

The earth breathes beneath you,
its warmth gathering,
slowly,
inside your body.

Drops cling to the veins of leaves,
quiet as a watching eye,
holding still
while you take shape,
while you become.

Time softens around you.

Daylight lays silver traces
across your skin.
At night, insects draw close,
listening
to the faint echo within.

You swell gently,

like dawn
swelling within the dark.

Your outline trembles in the wind,

a small lamp
suspended in the air,

ready, at any moment,
to drift into another world.

From deep within the soil
comes a tiny sound—

layer upon layer.

You stand there,

still.

A beam of light gathers inside you,

becoming a secret.

Your own morning

is quietly arriving.

《被时间照亮》

清晨的雾气还挂在田埂上，

你从湿润泥土里探出一点白。

风带着昨夜凉意吹过，

把你的影子晃得轻轻发颤。

大地像沉默的母亲，

把温度一点点送进你体内。

雨水顺着叶脉滑落，

在你弧线尖端悬成一粒透明的沉默。

三四个月的光阴里，

你在暗处缓慢鼓起。

夜里虫鸣贴着你的外壳，

白天阳光在你身上铺开薄银。

你不说话，

却在每一次膨胀里发出细微的滋响，

像空白第一次长出边界。

你洁白的轮廓在风里摇着，

一盏被点亮的小灯。

土壤静静托着你。

深处偶尔传来细小的回声——

滋滋，滋滋。

整个季节，

都为你缓缓让出道路。

The Season Makes Way

Morning mist still clings to the field,
as you lift
a small curve of white
from the damp earth.

The wind carries
the coolness of the night before,
setting your shadow
into the gentlest trembling.

The earth,
like a silent mother,

feeds its warmth
into you,

little by little.

Rain slips down the veins of leaves,

coming to rest

at the tip of your pale curve—

a single drop

a grain of silence, clear and still

For three or four months,

you have been swelling

in the dark.

At night,

the insects draw close,

their songs resting

against your skin.

By day,

sunlight lays

a thin sheet of silver

across you.

You say nothing,

yet with every quiet swelling

comes the faintest living sound—

as though emptiness

were growing

its first edge.

Your pale outline

trembles in the wind,

a small lamp

just lit.

The earth

holds you

in silence.

Deep below,

a tiny sound returns—

softly.

Sss...

Sss...

The whole season

slowly

steps aside

for you.