Bobby Chen’s Tribute to Edward Yang. (For another tribute song by Tsai Chin and Jonathan Lee, see the translation I posted last year on Yang’s birthday: https://lysisme.art.blog/2021/11/06/lyrics-a-love-letter-to-filmmakers-%e7%b5%a6%e9%9b%bb%e5%bd%b1%e4%ba%ba%e7%9a%84%e6%83%85%e6%9b%b8/)
That Year at Guling St.
稻草人的歌 道盡了早熟天才的孤獨 南機場外蓋了新村
Stories don’t end themselves. You left the whole room helplessly sitting in the dark thinking,
Somehow the terrorizers had taken drugs in that colorless age.
Those who walked by Guling St, only you knew them well, slumping down the red light at Tingzhou Rd.
The strawman’s songs about a lonely precocious genius left nothing unsaid. There’s a new village built out there near Nanjichang.
You said damn it’ll block the wild pigeons in the sunset from view.
那些年的牯嶺街 有些訕笑有些淚光 誰來為你刻上不朽的墓誌說明曾活著
我們都是活錯了時代的信天翁 依賴著幽暗的星光 飛向夢中的次大陸
我不知道風要往哪一個方向吹 只有感覺到孤獨的滋味 在呼喚著你
Those years at Guling St, we faked laughs and shed tears. Who’ll engrave you an everlasting epitaph saying you once were here?
We’re all albatrosses incarnated wrong, flying to the subcontinent in our dream by dim starlight.
I don’t know which way the wind is blowing, only feeling a touch of solitude calling to you,
And one by one wiping your life and love out, so we could only sigh for the years like flowers raining.
竹籬笆外的晴天 那永遠不老的情歌 是寄予怎樣的容顏和枯腸的愛戀
The sad woman sat on the beach all day long and tainted everyone’s sky with her silence.
If I’d catch you one day after the show, no matter how many years’ve passed, you have to unknot the misery in my heart.
A sunny day by the bamboo fences, the love song never ages- I wonder what kind of faces and impoverished passions they’re for.
也許人們曾聽說過 我們的故事 也許人們不會在乎
The sad heroine‘s now old but what is memory, the once good director without you,
Who always left the whole room puzzled.
That day when the wind rose, we were like albatrosses leaping down the cliff.
Maybe people have heard about our stories, or maybe they don’t care at all.
And maybe we’ll meet at Atlantis in our dream outside the Cloud Gate.
I don’t know which way the wind is blowing, and without realizing, the traveler has closed his eyes in the flowers raining.
Like the flowers how exquisite life was, and like the rain how sad
So we could only sigh for the free years you dost waste.