散文：匆匆 作者：朱自清　朗誦：若蘭　翻譯：佚名

燕子去了，有再來的時候；楊柳枯了，有再青的時候；桃花謝了，有再開的時候。但是，聰明的，你告訴我，我們的日子為什麽一去不複返呢？——是有人偷了他們罷：那是誰？又藏在何處呢？是他們自己逃走了罷：現在又到了哪裏呢？

我不知道他們給了我多少日子；但我的手確乎是漸漸空虛了。在默默裏算著，八千多日子已經從我手中溜去；像針尖上一滴水滴在大海裏，我的日子滴在時間的流裏，沒有聲音，也沒有影子。我不禁頭涔涔而淚潸潸了。

去的盡管去了,來的盡管來著；去來的中間，又怎樣地匆匆呢？早上我起來的時候，小屋裏射進兩三方斜斜的太陽。太陽他有腳啊，輕輕悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟著旋轉。於是,洗手的時候，日子從水盆裏過去；吃飯的時候，日子從飯碗裏過去；默默時，便從凝然的雙眼前過去。我覺察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽時，他又從遮挽著的手邊過去，天黑時，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地從我身上跨過，從我腳邊飛去了。等我睜開眼和太陽再見，這算又溜走了一日。我掩著麵歎息。但是新來的日子的影兒又開始在歎息裏閃過了。

在逃去如飛的日子裏，在千門萬戶的世界裏的我能做些什麽呢？隻有徘徊罷了，隻有匆匆罷了；在八千多日的匆匆裏，除徘徊外，又剩些什麽呢？過去的日子如輕煙，被微風吹散了，如薄霧，被初陽蒸融了；我留著些什麽痕跡呢？我何曾留著像遊絲樣的痕跡呢？我赤裸裸來到這世界，轉眼間也將赤裸裸的回去罷？但不能平的，為什麽偏要白白走這一遭啊？ 你聰明的，告訴我，我們的日子為什麽一去不複返呢？

Swallows may have gone, but they will come back; willow trees may have weathered, but they will turn green; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never return? If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they escaped, where could they stay at the moment?

I don't know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.

Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing! You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?

Rebecca Lin 2011 Autumn In USA