李冬春，白族，云南思茅人，70后。14岁在《思茅文艺》发表小说《莽莽中》。先后在《民族文学》《诗刊》《中国文学》（香港）等刊物及网络发表文学作品。1995年加入云南省作家协会。现旅居缅甸。

Dongchun Li, a Bai ethnic writer and Poet, was Born in Simao, Yunnan Province in 1970s. He published his first novel During the Boundless when he was fourteen. His literary works have appeared in a number of journals in China and overseas, including National Literature, Shi Kan and many others. He is a member of Yunnan Writers Association. He lives in Burma.

风信子，原名谭钟琪，江西九江人。文学硕士。中文讲师。

Hyacinth, originally Zhongqi Tan, is a native of Jiujiang, Jiangxi. She received her M.S. degree in Ancient Chinese Literature from Yangzhou University and her study includes Chinese Literature and Comparative Literature.

题绝版木刻“牛背上的村庄”

Inscription on the Reduction Block Printing Woodcut
“A Village on the Back of Cattle”

冬末。寒意渐去
可以想见即将到来的另一个节令
在暖冬，类似的景象并不多
要赞美的丹桂，仍在飘香
要描述的美丽云南，身在其中
我的词汇日益减少
一片叶，就是一座往生的墓碑
一朵花，就足以耗尽我所有的词汇
 
我无法说出更多，包括我的云南
在此地，一所叫做思茅师专的学府
那个被牛背驮走的村庄，就是我的稻香
几点微小的泥，溅上卑微了几世的奢侈
要的很少呵。一点色彩，几笔刻刀
一点暖意，被刻得滚烫。如山火，漫地而起
 
 我同样不能说出，眼前小若四方的木刻版画
我不向往树木的质地、肌理和内在的命运
注定倒在斧下的事物，也注定在刀锋上复活
她的叶片化土如泥，花香交还蜂蝶。如果有果实
还要落下。向下的过程，不疾不徐
如果正好有一阵风，也许还可以缓慢些
一切都慢下来。让一双抚摸树木的手
感知刀刀入骨的绝版木刻，席卷江山半壁
			

At the end of winter when the chill drifts away
I imagine another season coming
In a green winter, such scenes are few
The praiseworthy orange osmanthus, still wafts its fragrance through the air
Beautiful Yunan, in which I reside
My words daily decrease
A leaf, the gravestone to a next life
A flower, enough to consume all my words

I can say no  more, including my home in Yunan
Here stands a college, named Simao Normal Technological Academy
The village carried on the back of cattle, my rice aroma
A few small mud patties, splashed with humble extravagance for generations
I need very little. Some splashes of color, a few cuts of the brush
A little warmth cut till it boils. Like hills on fire, slowly rising.

I cannot tell, the picture before my eyes, small like a four-sided wood block
I do not yearn for the tree's grain, texture or inherent destiny
What is doomed to fall down under axe, is destined to revive under the tip of a blade
Its leaves are ground to dust and turn to mud, all fragrance returns to bees and butterflies. If there are fruits
They will still fall. Heading downward, not fast not slow
If the right breeze passes, perhaps they will fall more slowly
Everything falls slowly. Let a pair of hands caress the tree
Feeling the deep cuts and grain of the woodcut, sweeping across half the landscape