音乐剧《河口之处》第四部

第七曲

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《Little Weaver（小织巢鸟）》是一首温柔而安静的摇篮曲，由恩萨拉的小女儿唱给自己已渐渐恢复健康的孩子。夜深人静时，她一边轻轻哄着孩子入睡，一边回忆起几年前那个改变整个村庄命运的下午：当一位前来研究怪病的医生被愤怒的村民包围时，她的母亲恩萨拉第一个站了出来，卷起衣袖，请医生先抽自己的血，用自己的勇气为科学与信任打开了一条道路。如今，身为母亲的她更加懂得了当年母亲勇敢的做法。在她心中，母亲是一只总能在困苦中歌唱、为他人编织希望的“小织巢鸟”。

"Little Weaver" is a gentle lullaby sung by Nsala's daughter to her own child, who has finally been saved and is beginning to recover. As she rocks the child to sleep, her thoughts drift back to a day several years earlier, when her mother, Nsala, stood before an angry crowd that had surrounded a doctor seeking to study the mysterious illness affecting the village. Rolling up her sleeve, Nsala became the first to offer her blood, transforming fear into trust and opening the way for the research that would one day bring hope to their children. Now a mother herself, Nsala's daughter understands the courage behind that quiet act. To her, Nsala is more than a courageous woman—she is the "Little Weaver," a village nickname evoking the African weaver bird, tirelessly weaving nests and hope even in times of hunger and fear.

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Little Weaver

Little Weaver, little Weaver,
Who stitched the morning to the trees?

Little Weaver, little Weaver,
Who laughed before the honeybees?

The cooking pot was empty then.
The cassava came too soon.
My husband counted hungry days
By the shape of the moon.

My baby held the dust for toys.
She dreamed of running free.
Each dawn I rubbed her silent legs—

Little Weaver,
sing to me.

Little Weaver, little Weaver,
Who can quiet frightened men?

Iron flashed like silver fish.
Dust forgot the rain.

A white-faced stranger held his breath.
No one heard his name.

Only you walked through the shouting,
Carrying no spear,
Only those old laughing eyes
That never learned fear.

You said,

"Did medicine fall from trees?

Did healing grow like grass?

Someone must ask why children fall.

Someone must let him pass."

Then like peeling cassava,
Slow,
Without hurry,
Without shame,

You rolled your sleeve.

The whole village
Forgot its anger.

Little Weaver,
teach me still.

My child is five.
She cannot run.

Every night
I stretch her feet
Toward tomorrow.

Every morning
The same sun rises,
The same hunger waits,
The same road stays long.

But I remember—

You never argued with fear.

You fed it your courage
Until it starved.

Little Weaver,
laugh once more.

Laugh over dry fields.

Laugh over empty pots.

Laugh over sleeping legs.

If laughter can cross the hills,

Perhaps

One morning

My daughter

Will follow it.

一南 | Yinan