——寫於花蓮老厝火燒後

in memory of the old Hualien house, burned down

每逢起霧就想起

Whenever fog arrives, I remember

那棟老厝，在花蓮

the old Hualien house on Chongqing Street,

重慶街，浸在火焚的煙霧裡

so cloaked in white smoke it disappeared

看不清楚，像曝光的照片只露出

but for the roofline,

一列屋瓦

like an overexposed photo.

三歲的我坐在霧動的屋瓦上

How I’d sit there, three years old,

霧在花蓮的清晨裡

as fog at dawn crept across the rooftiles,

迷濛的眼睛看不到火車，從山巒

muffling the mountain train

蜿蜒而來的鐵路，只隱隱感到震動

that snaked down the rails,

自遠而近，自天外而來

invisible, the sky both near and far

faintly trembling.

河，似乎也從天外來

暴雨的流勢湍急，皮娃他潛入波中

Rivers flow from heaven

藏住頭，久久不出來

and return. This one too,

河又向天外流去，於是

rain-swollen when Piwa dove in,

哥哥那班人拾起他的衣褲，大聲哭了

went under, and didn’t come up.

排著隊從花崗山的方向走回來

His friends and brother gathered his clothes,

walked weeping single file up Huagang mountain,

一個挨一個

走入時間的負片，家的盡頭

each entering the past’s

走入一扇扇關起的門

undeveloped film.

坐在霧動的屋瓦上

On the rooftop where fog shifts,

曝了光

the door to one image opens on another.

像遲遲不褪的閃電那場火

Like a lightning flash that never fades,

黑夜開始，怒衝的火苗使花崗山也曝了光

the house burns till daybreak,

天亮，四十歲的我拎著一具四十年前的

its flames bright against Huagang Mountain.

老相機，獨自在二月的下午

At forty, alone one February afternoon

孤零零走回去

with my forty year old camera,

在重慶街，門前鋪了蓋的河面上

I walk Chongqing Street

where the river used to flow.

走過來走過去

聽遠處鋸木廠的電鋸聲，火車空隆隆響

Far off, the whine of the sawmill,

火舌在鏡頭裡突突向高空衝

the grumbling train.

有人著慌地吼：六號，是六號嗎……

Through the camera

其實，四周安安靜靜什麼聲音也沒有

leaping teeth of flame,

下午，陽光斜照在馬路右側按摩院

a frantic shout: number six, is it six?

Then silence,

我想著那棟消失的老厝

and across the road

屬於清晨霧中的那顆心，便又坐上

slant sunlight

曝光後竄起濃煙的

on a massage parlor.

一列屋瓦

My heart possessed by dawn fog

rises like smoke from the rooftop

of a house that is no more.