海葬｜Burial at Sea

海葬（中文）

文／泰华

2017年7月17日
2026年8月修訂

農耕文明
崇尚土葬
不能長生不老
也要肉身不腐——
如劉勝的金縷玉衣
如辛追的馬王堆漢墓

入土為安
是千百年來的堅守

死無葬身之地
曾為莫大的詛咒
曾為人生的悲劇
曾是重八
錐心的痛
也催化了一個王朝的誕生

也有特例

或為宗教
或為主義
遺體處理後供人瞻仰——
如六祖真身
如水晶棺里的領袖

如今火化漸成習俗
出於塵土，歸於灰燼
精神不死

但——

或許不願在世上白走一遭
或許後人也要一個紀念之地
於是墓地尚在
只是墓碑小了

也有人埋在樹根下
小橋旁
一張長椅下

長椅似乎是一個妙想

行人走累了
坐在這張椅上
看著逝者的名字
可以思想和追念
這個安息的靈魂

骨灰撒海
從飛機上，從輪船上
起初是難以理解的一幕

最近的這次海葬
是為一位至死未獲自由的作家
我從錄像中看到——
包裹骨灰的紅布袋
放在一個白色的瓷罐中
用一條線牽著
緩緩地放入海中
直到放手

然後撒了一大片花瓣
和幾束鮮花

我無權評論
這種喪葬方式

但我知道
你的精神不會被海葬

海鷗的鳴叫
總是會呼喚著你的名字
不知疲倦

夜色漸遠
霞光吻著清晨的波濤
告別，也在重逢

海不問來處
也不問歸途

Burial at Sea（English）

Taihua
July 17, 2017
Revised August 2026

An agrarian civilization
honored burial in the earth.
Unable to live forever,
people still wished the body to endure—

like Liu Sheng
in his jade burial suit,
like Xin Zhui
in the Han tombs at Mawangdui.

To rest in the earth
was a belief held firm
for thousands of years.

To die without a place of burial
was once a terrible curse,
once a tragedy of life,
once the piercing pain
of Chongba,
and helped set in motion
the birth of a dynasty.

There were exceptions.

For religion,
or for ideology,
some bodies were preserved
for others to behold—

the preserved body
of the Sixth Patriarch,
the leader
in a crystal coffin.

Now cremation
has gradually become customary.

From dust,
back to ashes.
The spirit does not die.

And yet—

perhaps no one wishes
to pass through this world
without leaving a trace.

Perhaps those who remain
still need a place
to remember.

So cemeteries remain;
only the headstones
have grown smaller.

Some are laid to rest
beneath the roots of a tree,
beside a little bridge,
beneath a bench.

A bench
seems a thoughtful idea.

A passerby grows tired,
sits down,
and sees the name
of someone who has gone.

For a moment,
one may reflect
and remember
the soul at rest.

Ashes scattered at sea,
from an airplane,
from a ship—

at first,
it was a difficult sight
to understand.

The most recent burial at sea
was for a writer
who died without ever regaining his freedom.

I saw in the footage—

a red cloth bag
holding the ashes,
placed inside
a white porcelain urn,

a cord tied to it,
slowly lowering it
into the sea,

until they let go.

Then a wide scattering
of flower petals,
and several bouquets.

I have no right
to judge
this way of burial.

But I know:

your spirit
cannot be buried at sea.

The cries of the gulls
will keep calling
your name,

tirelessly.

The night recedes.

The glow of dawn kisses
the morning waves—

a farewell,
and a reunion.

The sea asks not
where we come from,

nor where
we are going.