《好消息》
文/红韵
双语诵读/朗辰
窗开，阳台轻轻一晃。
风把她的头发举起来，
一个刚醒的好消息。
一粒墨落在栏杆。
黑眼珠里，她看见
自己的光在游。
鸟振翅，
把天空啄出
一个更蓝的漩涡。
回到屋内。
镜子里的那人
正伸手探过来。
她迎上去。两枚指尖
隔着一层水银。
玻璃薄如蝉翼。
时间棉絮般蓬松。
今天，
她们决定
住在同一个人里。
Good News
By Hongyun
The window opens. The balcony gives a gentle sway.
The wind lifts her hair—
a piece of good news just waking.
A drop of ink lands on the railing.
In the bird’s black eye, she sees
her own light swimming.
The bird takes wing,
pecking into the sky
a whirlpool of deeper blue.
She goes back inside.
The woman in the mirror
is reaching out toward her.
She reaches back. Two fingertips,
a film of mercury between them.
The glass is thin as a cicada’s wing.
Time is soft and billowy as cotton.
Today,
the two of them decide
to live inside the same person.
【朗诵者简介】朗辰，
配音朗诵发童声，外企经年美硕成。
久伴太极修身骨，退休寻梦会诗朋。
同研雅韵开心乐，共把清吟寄此生。
《轻零度》
文及英译/红韵
双语诵读/花仙子
顺叙是温和的——
春把夏牵到阳光下，秋用落叶盖住脚印，
而冬的尽头，一颗绿核养精蓄锐。
你从旧邮箱取出信，我把车票折成纸船。
同一个站台，我们错失了同一场雨。
窗外，山侧过脸。
前方，光落在山的肩头，
像一只终于伸出的手。
名字是蒲公英，多年后从胸腔飘出。
拥抱是木桥，两岸各站着陌生的故人。
把晚霞泡进茶，把答案晾在绳上。
你在远处种豆，
我在厨房拧开水龙头——
先听见的，是破壳。
生活是旋转楼梯，台阶矮你一寸。
偶尔踏空的那级，
薄成一片蝉翼；
你落脚的重量，
让它发出多年前的那声蝉鸣。
远方不急。
它是鞋带松开时，露出的那截路。
我们各自走着。
在故事的下游，两条河都慢下来，
汇成浅浅的水洼，
映出云中的你我。
绿核松开胚芽，蚯蚓画完弧线，
蝉蜕从枝头落下，落进你的掌心——
一个空壳，轻得
像你刚刚离开，
像你笑盈盈地，正朝我走来。
Light Zero
By Hongyun
The chronological order is gentle—
spring leads summer out into the light,
autumn covers the footprints with fallen leaves,
and at the far end of winter,
a green kernel waits, gathering its strength.
You take a letter from the old mailbox,
I fold a ticket into a paper boat.
On the same platform,
we missed the same rain.
Outside the window, the mountain turns its face aside.
Up ahead, light settles on the mountain’s shoulder,
like a hand that has finally reached out.
A name is a dandelion,
drifting out from the chest years later.
An embrace is a wooden bridge,
on either bank stand familiar strangers.
Steep the sunset into a cup of tea.
Hang the answer out on the line.
You plant beans somewhere far off,
while I, in the kitchen,
turn on the tap—
and what I hear first is the shell breaking.
Life is a spiral staircase,
each step an inch shorter than you.
Now and then,
the step you miss your footing on
thins exactly into a cicada’s wing;
the weight of your landing
makes it sound that cicada-cry
from many years ago.
The stone wakes in the palm—
to let go is to hold.
The distance was never in a hurry;
it is that stretch of road laid bare
when a shoelace comes loose.
We walk on, each alone,
and downstream in the story
both rivers slow,
pooling into one shallow puddle
that mirrors the clouds—and you and me.
The green kernel loosens its sprout,
the earthworm finishes its arc,
the cicada’s husk falls from the branch
into your palm—
An empty shell, light enough
to be your just leaving,
yet more like you,
walking toward me with a bright smile.
