《驿道之梦》（中英文）

《驿道之梦》

风，从一幅古卷里解封，

携着驿马久远的余热，

在青苔覆满的石路上掠过，

轻轻擦亮了，被遗忘的年代。

驿道从不直指远方。

曾藏着帝国呼吸的暗纹，

也曾让诗人的心事随尘土流转。

如今，深林把它收进阴影，

像收起一条沉眠的龙，

只需在梦里翻一片鳞，

便让时间失去方向。

踏上驿道，

却不知脚下升起的是旧日的尘，

还是未来的雾。

驿亭仿佛化成了茶意微凉的屋舍，

驿卒的回声变成旅人杯中的涟漪。

那些未曾抵达的信件，

似乎从风缝里重新聚合，

把从未发生的故事

轻轻叙述给你听。

记忆开始松脱——

见过的那场雪，忽然飘在盛夏；

呼唤的那个名字，却像从别人的梦里走来。

驿道的秘密大概如此：

既非去处，也非来路，

只是带你靠近

那道尚未被命名的心光。

意义与影像悄然互换。

连接城池与边疆的，

曾是它的脚印；

连接梦境与醒时的，

却是它的沉默。

如今金属的列车划裂天幕，

飞行的铁翼越过云层，

而驿道依旧在地下低声呼吸——

不与时代争速，

只在静处守住岁月的回音。

沿着这条被时光稀释的路前行，

不是试图抵达，

而是在某个不经意的弯处，

让那个被时间遗落的自己

悄然归来，

与现在的你

并肩而行。

《初冬之匙》

初冬的清晨，光未醒，梦未散。

花岗岩的台面如一座沉睡的山脉；

印着“Ohio”的杯子静静伫立，

像从北美林间走来的旅人，

带着一口尚带余温的茶——或咖啡——

在东方的静意里暗自呼吸。

盘中两枚蛋，如月的双眸，

凝望那块层叠的甜点——

白霜是雪，巧克力是夜，

白巧的碎屑，是初雪落在桂枝的声音。

不是食物的终点，

而是味觉的门楣，通往另一重世界。

叉子轻轻触碰，

仿佛唤醒一位沉睡的精灵。

从糖衣下伸出微光的手，

在空气里划开一条通向自由的路径。

看似早餐，却悄然松动了现实。

一枚蛋，一块甜点，一口温饮，

在不经意间召来生活的密语——

你并非进食者，

而是晨光的炼金师，

将东西方的微光揉进指尖，

在此刻，铸造属于自己的自由仪式。

窗外的风还在犹豫是否落叶，

而你已在这微小的仪式里，

完成了对世界的温柔抵达。

Dream of the Post Road

Wind, unsealed from an ancient scroll, Carries the lingering warmth of post horses long past, Skimming over stone paths cloaked in verdant moss, Gently polishing eras forgotten in shadow.

The post road never points straight to the horizon. It once concealed the empire’s hidden breath in subtle veins, And let poets’ unspoken sorrows drift with the dust. Now, deep forest folds it into shade, Like tucking away a slumbering dragon— Merely turn a single scale in dream, And time loses its bearing.

Step onto the post road, Unsure if what rises beneath your feet is yesterday’s dust Or tomorrow’s mist. The waystation dissolves into a cottage of tepid tea, The post guard’s echo becomes ripples in the traveler’s cup. Letters that never arrived Seem to reassemble from slits in the wind, Softly narrating to you Stories that never came to pass.

Memory begins to unravel— A snow you once witnessed suddenly falls in midsummer; The name you called echoes as if from another’s dream. Such is the post road’s secret: Neither destination nor origin, But a path that draws you nearer To that unnamed glow within the heart.

Meaning and image quietly trade places. What once linked cities to frontiers Was its footprints; What now bridges dream and waking Is its silence.

Today, iron trains slash the vault of sky, Wings of steel vault over clouds, Yet the post road still breathes low beneath the earth— Not racing the age, But guarding the echo of years in stillness.

Walk this road diluted by time, Not to arrive, But at some unheeded bend, Let the self abandoned by time Quietly return, And walk beside the you of now.

Key of Early Winter

In the clear dawn of early winter, light unawakened, dreams un scattered. The granite countertop lies like a slumbering mountain range; A mug etched with “Ohio” stands in quiet vigil, Like a traveler wandered from North American woods, Bearing a sip of tea—or coffee—still holding warmth, Breathing secretly in Eastern stillness.

Two eggs in the dish, twin moons gazing At the layered sweet— White frost is snow, chocolate is night, Shards of white chocolate, the sound of first snow on osmanthus boughs. Not the end of food, But the threshold of taste, opening to another realm.

The fork lightly touches, As if rousing a dormant sprite. From beneath the sugar glaze extends a hand of faint light, Carving in the air a path to freedom. Seemingly breakfast, yet it quietly loosens reality.

One egg, one sweet, one warm draught— In an unguarded moment summon life’s whispered cipher: You are not the eater, But the alchemist of morning light, Kneading glimmers of East and West between your fingers, In this instant forging your own rite of freedom.

Outside the window, wind hesitates to loose the leaves, Yet you, in this miniature ritual, Have already completed a tender arrival to the world.

（汪翔， 2025年11月中旬，于美国伊利湖畔。 转载请注明作者和来源。）