The Old Camphor Tree In My Memory

Author: Runping Chen The desk sends forth its particular fragrance That gladden people’s hearts. That is the sweet-smelling of the old camphor bodies And into the impression of my childhood immerses. The shade extended my fellow villagers’ strolling; Countless summer nights embraced people’s joyful cooling. The huge and tabescent trunk held up The wind and frost for generations’ living. The refreshing breeze was kissing the head of the tree. Kindly pulled the old camphor closer Some strands of cooking smokes Vaguer and vaguer. The production teams’ whistles were resounding over the village, And grownups shouldered the sun and moon Hurrying to the hills and fields While the old camphor collected the children’s imaginative yields. --In its chest The childhoods would not be lonely and flurried Counting from the stitches of leaves Thousands and thousands of suns. Many rivers of time were flowing around; With no sense of time, the sadness I’ve known. Since I was away, many shifts of the sunrise and sunset I came back home and found the old camphor fallen on the ground. It’s lying on the ground with no voice and sound, Being dying and breathing The merely last fragrance of its life In front of the horrible carpenters who circled around. The carpenters held their stainless saws Ignoring the old camphor’s itches and aches. On its shoulder was an owl With the mouth open, and family ruined after all. Prizing up the mouth for no use of vomiting sadness, The birds sang no songs any more in the sky Because they could hardly find back Houses and household articles among the green leaves. Children carried in both hands the remains of the old camphor’s bones, Hating to pile them in the firewood house. When the setting sun was sliding down the west hill ridges, I walked back and forth around the old camphor tree.