李铁柱《再回拉沙山》
📝 作者简介 · Author Bio
李铁柱 男 怒族1978年生，鲁迅文学院第三十七届高研班学员，第六届全国少数民族文学创作会议代表。云南省作家协会会员。兰坪啦井人，一名乡村教师，热爱生他养他的兰坪这块土地，并以书写这块土地为己任，作品曾发表于《兰坪》，《石月亮》、《贡山》、《怒江文艺》、《祥云文化》、《河北青年诗卷》、《岩泉》、《楚雄日报》、《边疆文学》、《民族文学》等国内外各种诗刊，他首先是个写诗人，其欠也偶尔写散文，无论他写什么，他的文字总带着兰坪土地的芬芳。他说；是这方土地的乳汁哺养着他。
Li Tiezhu, a male member of the Nu ethnic group, was born in 1978. He has attended the 37th Advanced Research Class of the Lu Xun Literature Institute and is a representative at the 6th National Minority Literary Creation Conference. As a member of the Yunnan Writers Association, Li was born in Lajing, Lanping, and works as a rural teacher. He deeply cherishes the land that nurtured him and feels a duty to write about it. His works have appeared in various domestic and international poetry journals such as "Lanping," "Shiyueliang," "Gongshan," "Nujiang Wenyi," "Xiangyun Wenhua," "Hebei Qingnian Shijuan," "Yanquan," "Chuxiong Daily," "Bianjiang Wenxue," and "Minzu Wenxue." Primarily a poet, Li occasionally writes prose, and his writings always exude the essence of the Lanping land. He attri
中文原文 Chinese Source Text
又是深秋，梦里的拉沙山一次又一次清晰，我知道去年的那一次独走拉沙山，我把魂丢在了拉沙山，丢在拉沙山枫林的红里，丢在拉沙山仰鼻猴迎着秋风的长啸里，或者丢在拉沙山读懂流云的山溪的水花深处……
拉沙山躲避在尘世之外，山溪未染上尘世的灰，秋叶未并肩与光阴一起饱经世事，难怪滇金丝猴的眼神像极了孩子天真的询问。它们在这里看到的是干净的拉沙山。
与其说禁不住梦里的纠缠，不如说是抵制不住拉沙山的诱惑，我又一次踏上了赶往拉沙山的路。
搭上兰坪县城往金顶箐门的公交车，然后穿过老姆井遗址，我一个人翻山越岭徒步扑向拉沙山。
秋风格外来劲，盘腿坐在彝家人的羊毛毡上，彝家人灶堂上的火翻炒着我的记忆，去年看过的枫红，饮过的山溪水、吃过的彝家腊火腿味儿、听过的猴啼声像茶香，兀自从心底弥漫，升腾。我不敢也不想睁开眼睛，当我到拉沙山彝族人家时，夜的黑裹紧着拉沙山，这样也好，闭着眼睛回味拉沙山，倒让我有种自己不是过客，而是归者的感觉，是的，空气中有我去年的体味，独坐黑夜里的拉沙山，山与我，我与山己然分不清山是谁？谁是山。
早晨，鸟在彝族人家的杈杈房外欢叫着，鸟群的欢叫仿佛是为迎接我，披衣，推门往外看，晨雾蒙蒙，蒙蒙晨雾里探出头的枫叶，好像是一颗藏不住的朱砂痣，因为等待，因为等待久了，毫不羞涩又藏不住羞涩地映入我的眼眸。
与拉沙山的眼神相遇，一种初恋的感觉油然而生，是的，我与拉沙山的初恋是雾里枫红的微笑——涩涩的，而又熟透着。
早饭过后，雾悄然散尽，阳光下的拉沙山层林尽染，枫叶的红不再是羞涩的红，那些晨雾里尚是羞涩的枫红，这时候己然闯过了初恋的抑制，他们那么红，红得奔放而又热烈，穿梭在红叶间，我印在溪流里的脸也泛着红光，我多么像个逃不出初恋情结偏偏又遇上初恋对象的老男人，羞赧着逃避自己的激动。
风来时，叶飘然零落，红叶纷纷落地的声敲响着我的心鼓，我的内心由是狂欢着，这种狂，让人舒心，含而不露，沐浴春风不过如此。拉沙山的秋风是妩媚的，引人心潮荡漾却不让人不失去庄重，这里的每一缕秋风。每一枚枫叶无不渗透着坦然，随性，丝毫没有俗世的七情六欲。
去年三月的杜鹃此刻已经隐退，如果枫红也算另一种花瓣的话，秋天的拉沙山依旧是花海，蜜蜂背着杜鹃花粉的背影也同杜鹃花海隐去，但在我驻足看风红，继而闭目听秋风的瞬间，我的呼吸里竟然有蜂蜜的甜，拉沙山的风是甜的，一丝一丝，一缕一缕，来自秋风深处，丝丝缕缕地钻入心底，在拉沙山深呼吸，所有内心的苦都会被拉沙山浸过肺腑又抽丝般离去的甜抽空。
野桃树落尽最后的叶，只有根倔强地虬扎在黑色的土地上，拉沙山的野桃树只开花，不结果，听老人讲；很久以前，山里有位少女爱上了一个穿山而过的背盐小伙子，他们约定来年桃花开时在拉沙山相见，可一年，两年……几年过去，终不见小伙子到来的身影，有一天，纯情的女子等累，等困了，于是在自己的最后一行泪中晕死过去，从此不再醒来，乡亲们把少女葬在拉沙山，第二年开春，这里便开满了野桃花……
路过拉沙山的野桃林，心隐隐发痛，我痛山里少女的痴，我也痛，我的爱情和痴情无缘。手抚摸着野桃树盘曲出土的根，我掌心的姻缘线又触到爱情的温暖，在拉沙山，我没有爱情但我又相信爱情，也许，我也是一棵扭动着根行走的野桃树，二月也开花，不结果，只为等着谁。
草甸上的羊群打着饱嗝，眼神慈祥，它们是拉沙山主人之一，我带着俗世的尘埃而来，我怕我的到来惊扰了它们慈祥的目光，怀着愧意低头快步绕过它们，它们却在我身后挨个叫着，那声音我懂，那是羊群在找离群的羊才叫的声，难道在拉沙山羊群的眼里，我也是一只离群的羊？畜生看懂了人性，我的人性看不懂畜生的大度与包容时，我特别看不起作为人的自己。
靠近拉沙溪，水声由远而近，走远的灵魂也由远而近，去年三月，我是在拉沙溪畔的铁杉林里偶遇金丝猴群，并且近距离地看到了它们清澈的眼睛，我多么想再走几步就遇上它们，比去年更近地遇上它们，我想在它们干净的眼瞳里沐浴一次，洗净污浊不堪的自己，看一看自己的初心……
来到溪边，再见猴群是失望了，所见山溪却比去年更清，或许，猴群故意把眼神丢在溪低，与我有一次不必相遇的相见。
夕阳西下，我的身影消瘦得比拉沙山谷还长，离开是无奈的，俗世也是佛写的经卷，我还是在经卷里再转转，转久了会再回拉沙山，看看我到底在人间读懂了多少佛的禅意！
再见——拉沙山，我的归去正是为了归来！
English Translation 英文译文
Once again, it is late autumn. The image of Lasha Mountain in my dreams becomes increasingly vivid. I realise that during my solitary journey to Lasha Mountain last year, I left my soul behind, lost in the crimson embrace of Lasha's maple forest, in the echoing calls of the snub-nosed monkeys welcoming the autumn breeze, or deep within the tranquil ripples of the mountain stream that whispers to the drifting clouds...
Lasha Mountain remains secluded from the ordinary world. Its streams are untouched by worldly dust, and its autumn leaves remain unscathed by the ravages of time. It's no wonder that the eyes of the Yunnan snub-nosed monkeys hold children's innocent curiosity. They see a pure Lasha Mountain here.
It's not so much that I cannot resist the allure of my dreams, but rather that I cannot resist the temptation of Lasha Mountain. Once more, I set out for Lasha Mountain.
I boarded a bus from Lansing County to Jindingqingmen, then crossed the ruins of Laomu Well. Alone, I traversed mountains and valleys, hurrying towards Lasha Mountain.
The autumn wind was particularly fierce. Sitting cross-legged on a woollen felt blanket of the Yi people, the fire in their hearth rekindled my memories. The red maples from last year, the mountain stream water I drank, the taste of the Yi people's cured ham, and the sound of the monkeys' howls spread out from the depths of my heart like the aroma of tea, rising and scattering. I dared not, nor did I want to, open my eyes. When I arrived at the Yi people's home in Lasha Mountain, the darkness of the night had enveloped it. This was fine, too. Closing my eyes and reminiscing about Lasha Mountain made me feel like a returnee, not a mere passerby. Yes, the air carried the scent of me from last year. Sitting alone in the darkness of Lasha Mountain, the mountain and I, I and the mountain, were indistinguishable. Who was the hill? Who was I?
In the morning, birds chirped joyfully outside the Yi people's fork-shaped house. Their songs seemed to be welcoming me. Dressing, I pushed open the door and looked out. The morning mist was dense, and the maple leaves peeking through it were like a hidden cinnabar mole, shy yet unable to conceal its shyness, reflecting in my eyes.
Meeting the gaze of Lasha Mountain, a feeling of first love arose spontaneously. My first love with Lasha Mountain was the smile of the maples in the mist—tart yet ripe.
After breakfast, the mist quietly dissipated, revealing Lasha Mountain under the sun, painted in layers of colours. The red of the maple leaves was no longer shy. Those maples, still bashful in the morning mist, had now broken through the restraint of first love. They were so red, red with abandon and passion. Wandering among the red leaves, my face reflected in the stream also glowed red. How much I resembled an older man who, unable to escape the complex of first love, reencountered his first love. Embarrassed, I avoided my excitement.
When the wind came, the leaves fluttered and fell, and the sound of the red leaves hitting the ground struck my heart like a drum. My heart rejoiced a comforting and contained joy, not revealing itself openly. Being bathed in the spring breeze was no more than this. The autumn wind of Lasha Mountain was charming, stirring the heart yet not losing dignity. Every thread of autumn wind and maple leaf here exuded tranquillity and spontaneity, devoid of the mundane world's seven emotions and six desires.
The azaleas that burst into bloom last March have now faded away. If the red maples could be seen as another type of blossom, then autumn’s Lasha Mountain still appears as a sea of flowers. The bees that once carried azalea pollen have vanished along with the flowers, yet as I paused to admire the crimson leaves and closed my eyes to the autumn breeze, I could taste the sweetness of honey in my breath. The wind on Lasha Mountain was laden with sweetness, strand by strand, thread by thread, seeping from the depths of the autumn air and quietly infiltrating my heart. Inhaling deeply on Lasha Mountain, all my inner sorrow seemed drawn out by the sweetness that permeated my lungs like silk.
The wild peach trees had shed their last leaves, with only their roots stubbornly twisting into the dark soil. According to an old legend, the wild peach trees on Lasha Mountain bloom but never bear fruit. Long ago, a young maiden from the mountains fell in love with a young man who transported salt through the area. They vowed to reunite on Lasha Mountain when the peach blossoms bloomed the following year. But one year passed, then another, and many more, yet the young man never returned. Eventually, the pure-hearted maiden, exhausted and heartbroken from waiting, fainted in her final tears and never woke again. The villagers buried her on Lasha Mountain, and the following spring, the area was covered in wild peach blossoms...
Walking through the wild peach grove on Lasha Mountain, my heart ached. I felt sorrow for the maiden’s unrequited love and grieved for my love, destined for futility. Touching the gnarled roots of the wild peach trees, I felt the warmth of love again through the lines of fate on my palm. I do not love Lasha Mountain, but I believe in its existence. Perhaps I, too, am like a wild peach tree with twisted roots, blooming in February but never bearing fruit, waiting for someone.
The sheep on the meadows bleated contentedly with kind eyes. They are the actual inhabitants of Lasha Mountain. I came here burdened with the dust of the mundane world, fearing that my presence would disturb their gentle gaze. I lowered my head and hurried past them with guilt, but they bleated behind me individually. I understood their calls; they were summoning a lost sheep. Could it be that I was also a stray in the eyes of the sheep on Lasha Mountain? When animals understand human nature, but I fail to grasp their kindness and tolerance, I despise myself as a human being.
As I neared Lasha Creek, the sound of the water grew louder, and with it, the souls of the departed seemed to draw closer. Last March, by the hemlock forest beside Lasha Creek, I encountered a group of golden snub-nosed monkeys and saw their clear eyes up close. I longed to take a few more steps and meet them again, even closer than last year. I wished to bathe in their pure eyes, cleanse my sordid self, and rediscover my original heart...
When I arrived at the creek, I was disappointed that I would not see the monkeys again, but the stream was more evident than last year. Perhaps the monkeys had deliberately left their gaze at the bottom of the stream, allowing for a meeting without a physical encounter.
As the sun set, my shadow stretched longer than the valley of Lasha Mountain. Reluctantly, I left. The mundane world is also a scripture Buddha wrote, and I will continue to wander within its pages. After a long journey, I will return to Lasha Mountain to see how much Buddhist wisdom I have genuinely grasped in this world.
Goodbye, Lasha Mountain. My departure is merely the prelude to my return!