在苏州的山塘街,我遇见一位卖茉莉花的老婆婆。她坐在街角的小木凳上,身旁放着小竹篮,竹篮里盛满洁白的茉莉花。她低着花白的头,苍老干枯的手指,轻轻捻起那些小茉莉。雪白的茉莉,淡然、羞涩、洁净,如待字闺中的少女。她将一根细铁丝从花蒂中穿过,不一会,一串茉莉花就穿好了。她缓慢的举止,满头的银发,慈祥的模样,那么像我的祖母。我蹲在她 At Shantang Street in Suzhou, I met an old woman selling jasmine flowers. She sat on the corner of the wooden bench, stood beside the small bamboo basket, baskets full of white jasmine. Her low flower head, old and dry fingers, gently twist those little jasmine. White jasmine, indifferent, shy, clean, such as waiting girl in the boudoir. She passed a thin wire from the flower pedicle, and a short while later, a string of jasmine flowers was worn. Her slow manners, silver hair, kind, looks like my grandmother. I squatted her