他乡月色（双语）

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The moon gleams peacefully through the window, bestowing every critter and the air with its tenderness.  I sit in the room, shedding tears, in crystal clear, little drops—they are the sorrow of yearning, a helpless call from a drifter far from home.  Looking at the lamp glowing piercing white, listening to its hiss, I believe it is the sound of evenings, of light, of the same yearning far away.  It is the voice of night, the cry of the heart, one after another, time and again.  I reach out to touch it.  There is nothing to hold.  But I feel it is there so real.  Such a night is worth remembering one"s whole life.  I stroll along the road of reminisce, see gentle words walking continuously out of memory, and find the scenario before my eyes fluttering past.  I pour myself a cup of hot tea, watch tea leaves unfold and blossom in the water, one, two, three. . . . They were in dozens growing from the center to the wall of the cup.  Holding it in my palms, I feel its warmth, and right at this moment, my yearning has gone across mountains and waters, and tea fragrance permeates the whole room between my thoughts.

I gaze out the window, listen to bell of the past ringing long and far. The wind is blowing gently. Isn"t it your affectionate greeting?  You are a drop of sweet dew in the moon, and it falls into my heart of solitude, nourishes my clear, serene thought.  You hear my short and long sighs of yearning tonight.  Are you stepping into my dream? Don"t you know, deep at night every day, I am expecting you here? Don"t you hear my yearning is singing, through the fallen leaves that fly with the wind？ Each time when I come to this imagination, different types of sentiments erupt from the bottom of my heart, out into the tranquility and peace-sentiments of confession, tears, earnestness, expectation and dreams. I love the gleaming moonlight.  Only in such a moon can one let his thoughts pile up, and merge with the color and texture of the night.

In a season of dreams, fantasy is almost not far from reality.  Time comes flying through the space between tree leaves.  Birds" chirping has gone far.  Sound that has been cleansed by monsoon rushes past my ears.  The moon hangs in the distance sky.  Dry twigs sway in the wind, and linger at night.  You are like ridges on which red leaves are burning, warming my soul of desolation. Days drift by slowly through the four seasons, but my heart is stuffed by heaps of yearning, no matter when it drizzles and turn chilly for days on end, or when the sun shines bright and the sky is blue and high. The ground is covered with fallen leaves. The wind has taken away my melancholy.  I am at this moment not myself. My thoughts are blended with the wind, trees, grasses, sky and earth.  I have never been so clear and hollow in the heart.  There is pure tranquility in my mind, without the tiniest piece of mundane world lingering. The sky is deep blue, and the yearning heart is expecting my dear family afar.

Yearning is a beautiful sentiment, a pretty scenery. It is so good to see the elegance of spring, and the fruits of autumn harvest.  Time elapses and life becomes enriched.  I am always in earnest expectation of deep fall. I am fond of the golden fallen leaves covering the ground; I am excited about maturity that catches my eyes, and get-together reminisces with friends. yearning out of yearning is heaping.  It changes into words, which flow under my fingers as I type on the keyboard. Words are, however, often weak.  Yearning cannot fly without taking advantage of word. Just like seeds trying to look for a desirable position in the peaceful heart, it is waiting for the final blossom.  I miss you each night, and I go to sleep with memory and expectation of you. . . . In dreams I endure bitter rain and harsh wind.  I hover in the air and I see you, the one that I have been thinking of day and night.  You, the same you, the countenance like yesterday, the eyes never changed, and the words still full of affections. What has changed is only time.  And get-together is always hard and short. . . .

It is yearning that makes me love moonlight.  Ain"t I doomed to be indulged with moon all my life?

月光安详地从窗外照进来，万物和空气在尽情地享受着它的温柔。坐在房间里，轻轻地摇落着一颗颗晶莹的泪珠--这是思念的忧伤，也是身在远方无奈的倾吐。看着灯光炽炽地亮着，听着嘶嘶嘶的声音，那是夜的声音，光的声音，是远方想念的声音。是夜在倾诉，是心在呐喊，一声声，一浪盖过一浪，伸手去触摸，虽然触不到，却真实地感受到它的存在。这样的夜里，一生中值得纪念的这一天，一个人走在回忆的路上，有细语款款地从记忆中走出来，眼前播放着已经过去的那一幕。泡一杯热茶，看着茶叶在杯中开花，一朵朵、一朵朵从中央向杯壁蔓延，捧在手里，温暖着手心，此刻，想念已过了万水千山，在语言的空白处溢满茶香。默默地凝视着窗外，听往事的钟声悠悠响起。风柔柔地吹来，是你深情的问候么？你是月光下一滴甘甜的露水，滴落在我寂寞的心房，滋润着我透明的思想，听着我今晚想念的叹息一声声短，一声声长，你会来到我的梦里吗？你可知道我在每一个深夜里默默的等候？可听到我的想念在飘飞的落叶里一路幽歌么？每当这个时候就会有种种冲动，诉说的，流泪的，渴望的，期盼的，梦想的，从心底里突突地往外冒出来。

喜欢淡淡的月光，只有这样，思想才可以在深夜里沉淀，才能与夜的色泽相吻合。

多梦的季节里，幻想几乎与现实没有界限。时光从树叶里零丁飘落，雁鸣远离，一阵阵被季节洗过的声音从耳旁掠过。远处的明月悬挂在空中，已干枯的枝条随风摆舞，与夜缠绵。你像红叶燃烧的山峦，时刻温暖着我孤独的灵魂，虽然岁月在四季的交替中淡淡地、悄悄地流去，但是，无论是在阴雨绵绵还是天高云淡的日子里，内心深处仍然被想念填得满满的。 落叶铺满了大地，风吹走了我的愁绪，此刻我不再是我，思想与风、树、草木、天空、大地融为一体，变得那么空心、透明起来。没有一丝杂念的进入思维，就象一泓清泉，缓缓流入清澈的小溪里。沐浴在深深的秋色里，新鲜的空气，湛蓝的天幕，想念的心，我远方的亲人。

思念是一种很美丽的情绪，也是一道很美丽的风景，春华秋实，时光流逝，岁月沉积，这一切都是那么美好，总是期盼着每一个深秋的到来，喜欢那满地的、金黄的落叶，期盼着满眼的成熟，还有那相聚的一刻。

想念，还是想念，文字在指下流动，在键盘上飞舞，却常常是无力的，而想念却要借助于词语飞翔，就像一颗颗种子，在淡泊的心境中寻找着合适的位置，等待着含苞欲放。想你，在每个夜晚，带着回忆和期待入眠……梦里有凄风苦雨，飘飞在空中，看到了日思夜想的你，依旧的容颜，不变的眼神，深情的话语，变化的只是时间，相聚总是这样匆匆……

想念让我开始喜欢月光，是否注定一生恋月？