学生翻译练习 完全原创!挂在树梢上的风筝 田野

The Kite on Top of a Tree

Tian Ye Wherever you go, nature is always beautiful. But I still like the mountains and waterways in my hometown.

As early as thirty years ago, at the days of my youth, I often missed the nameless small hill in my hometown on the other bank of the Taiwan Straits on treasured island----Taiwan.

What made me unforgettable in particular was the giant ancient banyan tree on top of the hill. Below its canopy of green leaves the towering tree hung its branches which looked like a long beard. The tree was just like an old man who had ascended the height to await the return of people.

My hometown was located on a vast plain. At the sight of the tall ancient banyan tree on the hill top, wanderers who came back from outside would know that they were nearly home!

I remember that because of the air attack by Japanese air-planes during the Anti-Japanese War, my school was evacuated to the nearby county. During winter vocation or summer holidays, on my way home my classmates and I walked in little knots on the long sluggish road. We walked and walked, wearily and dully. Suddenly, one of us firstly saw the ancient banyan tree on the hill. In spite of an obscure silhouette, we all could not help crying out: “We are home!”, just like Columbus discovered the new continent.

Then we pressed forward to quicken our pace unconsciously. We walked and walked, quickly and vigorously. As the shadow of the old banyan tree became clearer, it was really like an old man standing on top of the hill and greeting us at our return.

I still remember, when I was small, I highly liked bringing some books with me as a pillow. Lying on the grass under the big banyan, my mind was filled with free fantasies. In the sunlight, the slight scents of wild flowers like the rice wine in my hometown intoxicated me.

I also remember that at the days after every Spring Festival, we had the custom to fly kites in my hometown. The competition site for children was the hill top, where all kinds of kite flew high in the sky, one above the other. Among them my colorful butterfly kite appeared distinctly lightsome and graceful in the boundless sky.

However, unfortunately once my butterfly kite was tangled by the tree top of the giant banyan when I winded the thread. My thread broken and my kite hung there,

fluttering in the wind.

As many years having pasted, I left my hometown further and further away and the time grew longer and longer. But I always felt that my kite was still hanging on the banyan tree top.

In Taiwan, every time I thought of my hometown, I would certainly think of the nameless small hill and the old banyan. I would then think of my kite that seemed still on top of the tree. Thus I had a sense of pain of missing that was tricky to describe and hard to dispel. It seemed as if my wandering heart was also hanging on top of the tree on the remote bank across Taiwan Straits.

Taiwan has many mountains. I had visited all the mountains from the Datun Mountain in the north, the Ali Mountain in the middle to the Gu Mountain and the Qi Mountain in the south. These famous mountains overseas do have their own unique features, but I still find myself attracted only to that nameless little hill in my hometown. As time goes on and I grow older, I feel increasingly strong yearning toward my hometown.

Perhaps it was in the spring of 1953. One weekend, my wife and I took a walk over a small hill near the reservoir in Taibei.

It was a lovely day. The sunlight dripped through the dense green forest like warm drops. We walked along the path with short grass to the top of the hill. Then we had a rest under the flame tree covered with red blossom. While my wife was seating, feasting on the beautiful landscape below the hill, I lay on the grass with my head pillowing on my arms and a leaf of fig tree between my lips. The fragrance of early ripened rice wafted by a breeze made me drunk, and I started to know the crops on Taibei Plains was ready for harvesting.

I suddenly felt as if I had again returned my hometown across the straits and were lying on that nameless small hill under that old banyan.

I spontaneously cast up my eyes to the top of the fig: the red phoenix flowers were waving softly in the breeze. But where was my kite? The colorful butterfly kite on the treetop, where was it?

I turned over and sat up, sighing involuntarily.

My wife had never been to the mainland, not to speak of my hometown, but she knew my thoughts about that nameless little hill, about that ancient banyan and about my lost kite which she had heard me say more than once all these years.

“I know why you release a sigh...” she said looking at me.

On the way down the hill, we both said nothing. Only the chirp of insects from the two sides of the path edged with grass could be heard near and far.

My wife suddenly stopped looking back to the flame tree on the top of the hill and said “I think I can understand…” as mush to me as to herself.