With a faint whistling, the last flock of pigeons etched a circle in the light breeze, then disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness of this chilly, lowering sky for the onset of night, or perhaps they sensed the arrival of a storm, and so returned early to the warmth of their wooden pigeonry.
The few days' sunlight had splashed the willow twigs with the tender green of new growth,but the dust that now covered them made them seem tired and withered, in need of a wash. And the parched, split earth and tree-roots had long since been awaiting rain. But the rain hesitated.
I remember fondly the sounds of my birthplace—the sounds of thunder and of rain. Those mighty crashes rumbled and reverberated from mountain valley to mountain valley, as if the new shoots of spring were shaking in the frozen gound, awakening, and bursting forth with a terrifying vigour. Threads of rain, soft as fine grass, would then caress them with a tender hand, so that clumps of glossy green leaves would sprout forth and red flowers burst open. These fond recollections lingered with me like a kind of homesickness, leaving me dejected. Within my heart, the climate seemed as parched of rain as this northern continent; and like the raindrops, still hesitating in this leaden sky, for a long time not a single tear of tenderness had fallen from my arid eyes.
Even the white ducks seemed a little unsentted, their anxious cries rising from the dirty city stream. Some had not yet wearied of their gentle boat-like paddling. But others had stuck their long necks into the water, their red webbed feet stretching out behind their tails, continually thrashing at the water in an attempt to keep their bodies balanced. Perhaps they were searching for morsels of food on the stream-bed; or maybe they sought the chill cold of the deep water.
Some had come up onto the bank. They swaggered back and forth under the willow trees, enjoying a rest from the fatigue of paddling.Then they stood still, in ungainly disarray, smoothing each white feather carefully into place with their beaks; now and then they would shake their bodies or spread their wings, scattering the drops of water caught in their feathers. One that had already finished preening curled its neck up over its back, buried its red beak under its wing, and quietly closed its little black eye,surrounded by soft white down, as if it were preparing to sleep. You poor little creature, is this the way you dream your dreams?
I thought of the person in my birthplace who used to release the ducklings. A great crowd of light yellow ducklings would be taken to the waters of the creek—limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, and a long bamboo staff in the herder's hand. How happy his little army was, cheeping with noisy delight! And how meekly they followed his staff, over a field and then a mountain slope! When night came, the bamboo shelter propped up on the ground like a tent was his home. Yet what a distant image this is now! In this country of dust, all I hope for is to hear the sound of raindrop on leaves. The dark cool of the sound of raindrops,dripping into my parched and weary dreams, might grow a rounded canopy of tree-green shade to cover me.
I raised my head. The sky loomed like a grey curtain of fog, dropping a few cold shards upon my face. A lone hawk from afar swooped down from the sky, as if angered, angered by the these leaden skies, its spread wings unmoving, until it almost hit the earthen slope of the stream’s opposite bank; then it beat its wings and soared back up with a savage stridor. Those huge wings startled me. I could see the greyish feathers of its flanks.
And when I heard its piercing cry, it was like a terrible cry from the heart; or perhaps it was calling its mate amid the darkness.
Yet still the rain didn’t come.

译文3 Praying for Rainfall

The last flock of pigeons have also gone out of sight after doing their final circling in the soft breeze, the sound of their whistles barely audible. They are hastening back to their warm wooden dovecote earlier than usual perhaps because they have mistaken the bleak leaden sky for nightfall or because of their presentiment of a storm.
The willow twigs, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with the dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. And the perched soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. Yet the rain is reluctant to come down.
I can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my home town. Over there, whenever the rumble of thunder reverberated across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth bright green leaves and pink flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy to think about the old times and my mind is as depressed as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky sky, is slow to roll down.
White ducks have also become somewhat impatient. Some are sending out irritated quacks from the turbid waters of an urban creek. Some keep swimming leisurely and tirelessly like a slow boat. Some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them desperately so as to keep their balance. There is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water.
Some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their fatigure, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. Then, they stand about to preen their white plumage carefully. Occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. One of them, after grooming itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red beak under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white find hair. Apparently it is getting ready to sleep. Poor little creature, is that the way you sleep?
The scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my home town. With a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock of gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the limpid water of a shallow brook flanked on both sides by green grass. How the little creatures jig-jigged merrily! How they obediently followed the bamboo pole to scamper over field after field, hillside after hillside! When night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. Oh, that is something of the distant past! Now, in this dusty country of ours, what I yearn for is to hear the drip-drip of rain beating against leaves.
When I look up at a gray misty pall of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel chilly on my face. A hawk, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky, swoops down sideways out of nowhere, with wings widespread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. But it soars skywards again with a loud flap. I am amazed by its tremendous size of its wings. And I also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside.
Then I hear its loud cry—like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms.
But still no rain.