Reading Wheat Fields

Oil on canvas, 1887
This is not the wheat, or maizi in the Chinese language

Behind the hill of Montmartre, there is a vast spread

Of French wheatfields that I have not been to
Amidst the stubble left by the sickles

One who grew up eating the wheat found

That his heart experienced a sudden convulsion over the prostrate wheat

In my imagination, the ebbing stalks were not bent by the wind

The ebbing clouds were not ruffled by it

And the skylark, over the wheatfield and that despised

The sickles, was not blown by the wind

Into solitude, either
I can see more goldenness

Not on the body of the wheat that has not been harvested

And the remaining stubble, like wounds, smeared with excessive colours

Tells me that the blood of the wheat is that of the sun

That contains no bacteria and that of what Van Gogh has in his hunger

That contains no bacteria
Crossing the wheat fields, Van Gogh, the next year in Arles

Used the golden colours that he had squandered most profusely all his life

To light up 12 Sunflowers


读《麦田》

1887年 布面油画
这不是汉语中的麦子

蒙马特尔山后，有一大片我没去过的

法国的麦田
从镰刀留下的残梗上

一个吃麦子长大的人

心脏突然，为遍地倒伏的麦子痉挛

我的想象中，退潮的麦秆不是被风吹弯的

退潮的云朵不是被风吹乱的

那只在麦田上空，鄙视镰刀的

云雀，也不是被风

吹孤独的
我看见更多的金黄

不在尚未收割的麦子身上

而伤口一样的残梗上，涂得过剩的色彩

告诉我麦子的血液，就是阳光不含病菌的

血液，就是大地不含病菌的

血液，就是凡高在饥饿中

也不含病菌的血液
走过麦田，凡高来年在阿尔

用一生中挥霍得最多的金黄

点燃十二幅《向日葵》