下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
我在这条街上走的时候，
已经见不到街了。
一条青石路油亮光滑，
那是清末遗留的一条长辫，
顺坡而下的民房，
像倒扣的黑色瓜皮帽，
百年忘了捡拾。
棉花帮最后的帮主，
作为一幅民俗画的落款，
进了博物馆。
和画一起陈列的，还有当年，
西洋人马丁的黑白记忆。
一条街蒸发了，
这里的棉花飘飞为云。
剩下一条路可以交通，
我曾经上上下下，
找个小店喝碗老酒，
在那里听那些跑船的人，
戏说旧年的繁荣。
一碟花生米，
余味无穷。
街没有了，
青石板路不在了，
喝酒的店子找不到了。
没有人可以和我进入以往，
以往模糊不清。
我不知道这里丢失了什么，
棉花街，真的上了年纪。
This street already vanished
When I walked in
A road made of grey rocks, smooth and shiny
Resembled a long braid, a remnant from the Qing Dy nasty
The houses ran down the slope
Like black melon caps over the ground
For over a hundred years
No one came to claim them
The last lord of the Cotton Gang
As a name on a folk painting
Became a collection of the museum
A black and white memory, from Martin, a wester ner
Was also on display
A street evaporated
The cotton here flew away
It changed into clouds
The broken road could be used for vehicles
I used to go up and down
To find a small place to order a bowl of old wine
I heard stories there, of prosperous old times
From the people who ran the boat business
A small plate of peanuts
Its taste you would never forget
The street is gone
Grey rocks are gone
The wine shops are nowhere to be found
Nobody can enter the past with me
The past is receding
I feel totally at a loss
Cotton Street, you are old