逃　亡

   The Escape （iV）

     *      VII      *

How joyful and festive,

        the day we sent our sons away.

The farewell assembly toke place

        at the cross-square of main streets.

My child was no longer humble;

        now, he was in the ‘honorable grade’!

With straight trunks and stiff faces

        prominently but puppets-likely sat on stage.

Representatives were cordial,

        presented presents and blessings.

Cadres were jubilant,

        addressed with praises and boasts.

Heaven was also courteous,

        sent them down of white goose;

Bountifully and beautifully they fell

        to wrap their coats and pave their roads.

 Gongs and cymbals were clashing.

        Long bugles were loud.

Firecrackers were deafening.

        String music was soft.

Marching ahead was the militias;

        with guns, spears, songs and shouts.

Twisting behind were the entertainers:

        the stilt dancers and flower drum shows.

Schoolboys cheered them,

        hopping and waving along.

Village girls leered at them,

        attending, escorting around.

These youngsters, as if ancient warriors,

        were gloriously parading in town.

Actually, they were new kind prisoners,

         being driven to the execution ground.

            *      VIII      *

Having offered my son,

        though, we became ‘honorable dependents’;

For our lives,

        there was still no more food, no better clothes.

Having taken away my child,

        though, they stopped further persecution;

For our freedom,

        they still watched us warily, confined us close.

Those rascal cadres

        were only superficially nicer.

Those accomplice militias

        were only perfunctorily milder.

Seeing them, we’d still tremble

        like goats encounter tigers.

We’d greet them from afar,

        bow lower than captive laborers.

But, I could join the parade    

        to be queerly demonstrated;

Be driven here and there

        with jesting drum and gong.

But, I could be brought upstage

        to be awkwardly praised;

While down stage in meetings,

        I was placed at the fore ground.

On festival days,

        they’d come to ‘console’ us;

Mockingly hang up some tokens

        and quirkily shout some slogans.

In their leisure time,

        they’d come to ‘help’ us;

Purposely trample my crops   

        and slyly kick my pumpkins.

Before the people I’d hold my head high;

        behind them I bent it to my knees.

Before the people I was often derided;

        behind them I could only weep.

Before the people I usually felt like

        standing on carpet of needles;     

Behind them I sometimes feared

        someone would spit at me.

Often I’d regret that

        I had let my son go.

Often I’d feel that

        I was sorry to my ancestors.

Often I’d wonder,

        what made me to do so?

What was their eventual intention?

        Who was the prime wrongdoer?

Who could know

        my real intention?

Who could bear

        this kind of distress?

Who would offer his child

        for such a treatment?

Who could dye the cloth

        from black into red?

Painful and sinful,

        woeful and rueful;

Often I’d hit my head,

        stomp my foot, cover my face.

Furious and hateful,

        anxious and fearful,

Often I’d cry to Heaven

        to ask His guidance and grace.

To be continued --