The Bugler

It seems that I once heard someone say that the destiny of a bugler is doomed, that when he presses his lips against the brass metal to produce the sounds, he blows out as well imperceptible traces of his own blood...

Bugler's faces are often sallow...

I

    Among the tired troops curled up on the bed of rice-straw, 
    Among the filthy troops wearing their ash-gray uniforms, 
    He is the first to wake up -
    He wakes up, starts up all of a sudden, 
    It's as if he were - every day - startled awake. 
    Yes, he is startled awake: 
    What startles him
    Are the wheels of the chariots that bring the dawn
    Rolling down along the edge of heaven. 

    He opens his eyes wide, 
    In the dim lamplight that burned through the night. 
    He sees the bugle hanging by him, 
    Looks at it in a daze, 
    As somenone just roused from sleep
    Would look at his beloved upon first opening his eyes, 
    And with the same affection -
    In all the days given to live out this life, 
    He can do nothing but love his bugle. 
    The bugle is beautiful-
    Throughout its length, 
    Glints a vibrant brilliance; 
    On its throat
    A scarlet tassel is tied. 

    The bugler has risen from his bed of rice-straw on the ground, 
    Harboring no grudge that he had to sleep on this damp mud floor. 
    He quickly ties on his leggings, 
    With ice-cold water he washes his face. 
    He looks over at his weary comrades snoring, 
    Then extends his arm to take up his bugle. 

    Outside, it is still gloomy and dark; 
    Day has not yet broken, 
    What startled him awake -

    Was his own passionate impatience
    For the dawn. 

    He walks up the slope of the mountain, 
    And stands there for some time, 
    Until, finally, he sees this mundane marvel unfold before him: 
    Dark night drawing back her mysterious veil
    The stars wane, and one by one, disperse and disappear... 
    Dawn - ah, the bride of the day, 
    Riding a chariot with golden wheels
    Approaches from the far side of the sky; 
    Our world, in welcoming her, 
    Has already hung down in the east a million-mile curtain of light... 
    Look, 
    Between heaven and earth, a sacred and stately ceremony takes place... 

II

    Now, he begins, 
    Standing underneath the blue and lucent dome of heaven, 
    He begins, and, with the fresh fragrant air of the open country, 
    Blows his breath through the bugle, 
    - And, along with it, perhaps a trace of blood? 
    From the bugle, out of deep feeling, 
    A fresh, full sound is given back to the countryside, 
    - With devotion to the beautiful dawn, 
He blows the sounds of reveille: 
    How that sound resounds for miles and miles!... 
    
    Everthing on earth, 
    Brimming over with joy, 
    Responds to the call of the bugle. 

    The forests are awake, 
    And broadcast, wave upon wave, the clamorings of birds; 
    The rivers are awake, 
    And summon herds of horses to lap up their waters; 
    The farmlands are awake, 
    And the peasant women scurry down the diked furrows; 
    The assembly ground is awake, 
    And the soldiers in their ash-gray uniforms, 
    Burst out of their broken-down barracks bathed in the morning light, 
    And scramble into position for the roll call... 

    Then, he gets down from the mountain slope,    
    And loses himself
    In the numberless gray-uniformed throng standing at attention. 

    After he has finished sounding the call to breakfast, 
    He blows the call for assembly; 
    Later, in the glorious radiance that rains down from the sun, 
    Dazzling every reach of the overarching sky, 
    With fervor and urgency, 
    He sounds the call to arms. 

III

    That road
    Stretches out to the edge of a heaven with no stopping point; 
    That road
    Has been laid out by the trampings of ten thousand feet, 
    The mud tracks of a thousand trucks; 
    That road
    Joins one village to yet another village; 
    That road
    Having crossed over one hill climbs yet another hill. 
    And now
    The sun gilds that road with a layer of gold, 
    And our bugler, 
    At the head of long columns of sun-drenched troops, 
    Sounds the call to advance
    And gives to the troops on the move
    A stirring beat to march to. 

IV

    The gray figures, 
    Spread out in the open country -
    But, the countryside today, 
    This boundless expanse of green grass, this darkling plain, 
    Will become for us a solemn and sacred altar; 
    Listen, an ear-splitting blast

    Explodes over the horizon; 
    We breathe in the fragrance of grass mixed with mud, 
    And we also breathe in the exhalations of far-off explosions. 
    We crouch in our battle trenches, 
    Wordlessly, solemnly, awaiting our orders, 
    Like expectant mothers
    Waiting in pain for the birth of their offspring; 
    In our hearts, 
    We have never felt, as we feel today, this overwhelming sense of love, 
    Ordained by the times in which we live
    - A lot each of us has chosen for himself, 
    This last day of our lives. 

    There is not one among us unmoved by a pure and sacred ambition: 
    We are prepared to win in battle the glory of our sacrifice! 

V

    Now, the vicious onslaught begins -
    Countless numbers of combatants
    Bolt out of their trenches, startled by the flashes of light, 
    All across the front, charging furiously ahead, 
    Menacing the enemy by their advance... 
    In the death-dealing, earth-shattering noise, 
    In the forward surge of soldiers who cannot afford to look back, 
    In the mad dash, the rushing waves of humanity, 
    In the continuous, high density bomb bursts, 
    Our bugler, 
    With the excitement that fate has instilled in him, 
    Rushes forth at the same time as he blows that
    Staccato, urgent, stirring
    Call to charge, a call that nothing short of death will interrupt. 
    That sound soared high above us, 
    And was more beautiful than anything else. 
    Just then, when, as if making an irrefutable declaration, 
    He let forth a strain to celebrate the victory, 
    He was felled by a bullet drilled into his heart. 
    He collapsed, forlorn; 
    No one had seen him fall, 
    But in the very last moment of his fall, 
    On the earth that he had loved so much, 
    At that moment, his hand
    Still clutched the bugle tight in his grip. 
    On that smooth, polished brass, 
    Was reflected the blood of the dead, 
    And his pale, sallow face; 
    It reflected the never-ending movement
    of soldiers with guns firing, rushing forward, 
    of horses whinnying, 
    of trucks clanking... 
    But the sun, the sun
    Made that bugle glint and flash in its light... 

    Listen: 
    That bugle seems to be sounding still... 

    End of March, 1939
    (Translated by Eugene Chen Eoyang)

Designer by Yuan Zhi Qing^~&C Copyright