There used to be a paradise In which anngels danced with every sunrise Fertility was a perpetual offering Giving pumpkins, persimmons luscious and flaming Growing under the blue sky and the evening glow That on the surrounding jade-green mountains did sew So purely lovely, as every life there Merriment flowed from each to each in the joyful air The angels’ happy chants were always continuous To Life, Nature, and True Happiness One day, these new arrivals came With their faces pale and grave all the same In hands of one who spoke a pitch Holding a simple sheet, on which－ A language unknown; they called it Contract Which could make everything, they said, a fact They showed friendliness and－weird condescendence Promising the angels Home and Land was the circumstance Innocent and simple-hearted Asked to put a fingerprint, the angels did... Catastrophe came about in the night abnormally chill A large number of the pale armed with guns came to kill－ They were the monsters named Government Shouting "Leave for the sealed Land in an instant!" Then, exiled to a Home new one The angels were given carriages to ride on While they refused－by Soul Holding their last treasure invisible They strode away－on foot Government followed and held guns threatening to shoot The long way was grievous suffering For the cold, the wounds, and the stomachs starving Immortal are souls; bodies fade They became a death parade People passed away while the Government commanded "Once three days for burying or just rid!" So they carried the bodies of their beloved None of them dropped a tear－no one did－ No exposure of Soul－such sublime Dignity While people passed by, seeing did drop liters with sympathy Hence it was called Trail of Tears Inferring sorrow of sight from the seers Had you seen them, you would weep too to a sight like this: Numb-looking mothers carrying cold, stiff babies, Husbands carrying wives’ bodies, and－ Sons carrying parents’ with one in each hand...... And if seeing toward the way they came－how remote Could anyone still sing a note? Even if one could, wouldn’t it be a melody But rather－a centurial Elegy --

※ 发信站: 批踢踢实业坊(ptt.cc) ◆ From: 111.243.215.153 ※ 编辑: frolicker 来自: 111.243.213.15 (11/10 22:50)