原创小说及翻译--竹蝴蝶

很久以前写的小文，朋友翻译了一下，和大家分享。我的专业是甲状腺疾病，很久以前听说过一个故事，所以写下来。
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“竹叶飒飒轻舞，小溪叮咚伴唱。竹林深处深处，笛声婉转悠扬……”
Bamboo leaves dancing in the wind, little creek accompanies with song.  In the depth of the bamboo forest, the flute sounds smooth and melodious.


这是我家乡的山歌，我从小就会唱。我出生的那个村子，非常美丽，被重重叠叠的青黛山峦包围，有缓缓流淌的湖水，有一望无际的竹林。我的爷爷，爹爹和哥哥们，从没有人走出过这个竹林，世世代代，在这里耕火相传，安详地生活着。
This is the mountain song of my home. I was able to sing it when I was young.  The village of my birth, a very beautiful place, surrounded by layer upon layers of shady green hills, with ebbing of lake water, with endless groves of bamboo.  My grandfather, father, and brothers, none of them has ever walked out of this bamboo forest, for generations, they cultivated and plowed, living a peaceful life.

我是最小的妹妹，娘烧香时，默默地说，佛祖阿，请给我一个有着湖水一样清澈眼睛，有着竹叶一样轻盈身影的女儿，佛祖仿佛听到了，我于是来到这个世界。
I am the youngest sister.  When mother was praying with incense she muttered, Buddha, Please give me a pair of eyes clear like the lake water, with a body of a bamboo leaf.  As if Buddha heard it, therefore I came into this world.

我平静地长大，坐在深深的大院里，把竹子劈成细细的篾条，编成各种各样的玩意儿，奶奶散发着清香的竹枕，哥哥烈日下劳作时的竹笠，嫂嫂挎在手中的小竹篮，还有调皮侄儿手中的小蜻蜓。
I grew up uneventfully, sitting in the large courtyard I split the bamboo sticks into thin strips, weaving them into all sorts of gadgets, grandmother’s fragrant bamboo pillow, brother’s bamboo hat for the intense sun, the bamboo basket in my sister-in-law’s hand, and the little dragonfly for the naughty nephew.

我的名气渐渐传出去，远乡近邻都来托我编些东西，我常常在月光中忙到深夜，嫩黄晶莹的竹条在我纤细灵巧的手指间纷飞穿梭，渐渐变成一个个玲珑精致的形状，我的心也随着欢乐地低吟。
My fame gradually spreads, far and near, all the neighbors ask me to weave things.  Under the moonlight I often labor to the depth of the night.  With my slender dexterous fingers, soft yellowish bamboos strips shuttle across, each gradually form dainty refined shape.  My heart also sings softly with joy.

有一天，有人来叩门，我开门，探出半个脸。是一个年轻人，看着我，幽幽的眸子里，我看到自己如湖水般清澈的眼睛，又倒映着他的。

One day, someone knocks at the door.  I open the door, showing half of a face.  A young man, he looks at me, in his black eyes, I can see my own clear lake water like eyes, reflecting his.

他微笑地说，我是外乡来的教书先生，在湖边开了小学校，你也来听课好不好？他的口音很奇特，声音很好听，像风吹过竹林，温柔沉厚。我慌乱地点头，掩上门。
He smiles, I am a teacher from another village, started a school by the lake.  Why don’t you come to class as well?  His accent is unusual, very pleasant, like the wind rustling through the bamboo forest, soft and deep.  I hurriedly nod, shut the door.

天蒙蒙亮，我就起来了。穿上竹绿色的布衫子，乌油油的头发在脑后梳成辫子。一步步，走向湖边的那个小学堂。先生站在门口，远远地，晨雾中见到瘦长的身影，衣襟拂动，我的心啊，几乎要跳出了胸膛。
The daylight barely breaks, I am awake.  Wearing bamboo green clothing, braiding the black hair into plaits.  Step by step, walk towards that little school by the lake.  The teacher is standing by the door.  From afar, within the morning fog, reveals the long and slender silhouette, clothes astir, oh, my heart , it almost leaps out of chest.

走到先生面前，他脸上和蔼的笑容却突然凝结，我的人也要冻住了。进去的时候，听到先生轻轻的叹息，真可惜啊，多美的小人儿。我不明白先生为什么这么说，是我的头发不够整齐吗，还是今天的衣衫不够新？
Walking to the front of the teacher, the amiable smile suddenly freezes.  I too am frozen.  While walking in, heard the teacher’s soft sigh, such a piety, such a little beauty.  I do not understand why the teach would say this, is it because my hair not neat, or is the clothing not new?

先生教我们识字，渐渐地，我能认出，碧云天，黄叶地，秋色连波，波上寒烟翠。
The teacher teaches us to recognize words, gradually, I can recognize, blue green sky of cloud, earth of yellow leaves, waves of autumn colors, mist over dreamy lake.

先生读的时候，抑扬顿挫。经常他会给我们看一个黑匣子里放出来的彩色图片，有一次，是各种各样的蝴蝶，斑斓夺目，先生说，蝴蝶是美人凝聚的魂魄。
When the teach reads in cadence, he often lets us look at colorful prints from a black box, one time, a variety of butterflies, colorfully blinding the eyes, teacher says, butterfly is the condensed soul of a beauty.

那天晚上，我回到家里，挑出最柔最韧最滑的竹条，细细割到如发丝一样，坐在青烟灯边，直到天明。我睡着了，手边是一只呼之欲出的竹蝴蝶。
That night I returned home, picked out the softest and the smoothest bamboo strips, carefully cutting them hair thin, sitting by the oil lamp, until daybreak.  I fell asleep, by my hand is a vivid lively bamboo butterfly.

先生接过这只蝴蝶，小心地揣进怀里，眼中的湖水更加深邃，我的心也跟着一起荡漾。
The teacher accepts this butterfly, carefully holds it in his arm, the lake water like eyes deepens, my heart also undulates.

忽然先生离去了，回来的时候，身边多了一个女老师。短短的头发，窄窄的裙子，还穿着薄如蝉翼的长袜子。先生牵着女老师的手，走到我面前，高兴地对她说，这就是我跟你说的那个美丽伶俐的小人儿，你看我说得对不对？
Suddenly the teacher left, upon returning, an addition of a female teacher, shortened hair, narrowly fitting skirt, and long hose thin like the wings of the cicada.  The teacher holding the hand of the female teacher, walking to the front of me, telling her with delight, this is the little cute beauty I told you about.  See if I was right?

我看到女老师细长白腻的脖颈，带着一根项链，那个链坠儿，是一只竹蝴蝶。我转身奔走，一口气奔到湖边。水中的倒影，我看到自己脖子上突出的几个醒目的瘤子，我娘，哥哥，还有乡亲们，都是这样。可是那个女老师不是这样，她真美。
I saw on the long and white neck of the female teacher, a necklace, on the necklace is a bamboo butterfly.  I turn and run off.  With one breath I run to the lakeside.  In the reflection of the water, I see on my own neck an obvious protruding tumor.  My mother, brother, and all the relatives, are all like this.  But that female teacher is not like that.  She is so
beautiful.
回到家里，娘跪在佛龛前。我问，佛祖真的能什么都听见吗？娘回过头来，微笑地摸着我的头发，当然，你就是娘跟佛祖祈求来的呀。

Arriving home, mother kneels in front of the shrine, I ask, can Buddha hear everything?  Mother turns her head, smiling and caressing my hair, of course, you are what Buddha granted me.

夜深了，我编完最后一个篮子，静静地跪到佛龛前。看着微笑垂目的佛像，我默默地祈祷。眼前闪过先生湖水一样的双眸。我掏出锋利的削竹刀，往自己脖颈上的瘤狠命地切下，血，喷注而出。我抓起香灰，糊在脖子上，村里的老人说，这样能够止血。但是鲜血依然汩汩地往外流淌，瞬间沾湿了我的绿衫子。
Deep at night, I finished weaving the last basket, silently kneeling in front of the shrine, gazing at the smiling downcast image of the Buddha.  I pray in silence.  The image of the eyes of lake water of the teacher flashes across, I pull out the sharp bamboo knife, brutally slashing the tumor on my neck, blood, gushes out.  I grab the ash of the incense and paste it on the neck.  The elders of the village say this can stop bleeding.  But the fresh blood continues to bleed, rapidly stained my green clothing.

眼前的佛像越来越远，似乎可以看见蝴蝶翩翩飞过，难道，那是我的魂魄吗？
The image of the Buddha in front is farther and farther away, almost can see the butterfly fly, can it be, the soul of mine?