Dragonfly

儿时梦里，总反复出现一个场景：

夜晚归家路上，我从父母的单车后座摔入黑暗，

头与左肩之间，浮现一只巨大的蜻蜓。

 

盛夏，我羡慕农家孩子们的捕蜻蜓网，

记不清自己是如何捕到那只蜻蜓——

只记得，我试图圈养它，

为它捉来几只苍蝇当作食物。

 

天亮时，那被我束缚的蜻蜓却一动不动。

挣脱未遂的它，身首异处，悄然无声。

 

成年后，那些关于蜻蜓的梦境早已消散，

关于它的记忆也渐渐模糊，

直到某日，在桥上邂逅一只小小的蜻蜓——

直觉让我伸出手，

它轻轻飞起，又轻轻落在我的手上。

 

它仿佛在向我传递某种讯息，

那一刻，桥下的河流静止了。

 

此刻落笔，我又想起荷花池畔的一个夏日：

池边的我，凝视着尚未长出翅膀的蜻蜓幼虫——

那一瞬，我仿佛看见了自己。

 

In childhood dreams, one scene returned again and again:

On the way home at night, I fell from the back seat of my parents’ bicycle into darkness,

and between my head and left shoulder,

a giant dragonfly appeared.

 

In midsummer, I envied the farm kids with their dragonfly nets.

I can no longer recall how I caught one myself—

only that I tried to keep it,

feeding it a few flies I’d caught.

 

At dawn, the dragonfly I had bound no longer moved.

Its struggle failed,

its body and head parted, gone without a sound.

 

In adulthood, the dragonfly dreams have long since faded.

Even the memory of it blurred with time—

until one day, on a bridge,

I met a tiny dragonfly.

Something instinctive made me hold out my hand.

It rose gently, then softly landed on it.

 

It seemed to be telling me something.

In that moment,

the river beneath the bridge stood still.

 

As I write this now, I recall a summer by the lotus pond:

I, crouched at the water’s edge,

watching a dragonfly nymph, its wings not yet grown—

and for a second,

I thought I saw myself.