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本帖最后由 olvido 于 2011-6-7 05:47 编辑
1. Memory
Stories are nothing.
They roll, flee in presto, shrink to tiny mud balls,
and are washed away by rains of oblivion,
leaving only blistering mosaics
inadvertently dropped to decorate
an afterlife:broken tunes, unfulfilled chords,
variations on forgotten themes,
these homeless longings.
Thunder wrapped excursions,
bicycle rides over the entire horizon
burnt by the tremolos of evening glows,
trills of wind accompanied
by the humming of telegraph poles, all dissolved
in the deep forest of young frenzies.
Burials with long tolls.
Before darkness treads on the butterfly wings
where miniature reflections of drifting clouds shimmer,
before the long funeral march spans
over the endless dunes of solitude,
I reach towards you, trying to save
the aborted light in that arched afternoon.
故事什么都不是。
它们滚着,踏着急板逃离,蜷成小泥球儿
然后被遗忘的雨洗掉
只留下匆忙中失落的
炙热的马赛克碎片来装饰
来生:破损的调子,未得圆满和弦
从遗忘了的主题上衍生的变奏
这些无家可归的渴盼
雷声包裹的远足
脚踏车骑过整个
被晚霞的颤音烧毁的天际
风打着颤指
和着电线杆的嗡嗡声,都溶化
在青春迷乱的深林里
丧礼,长钟
在黑暗践踏上游移的云
于蝶翅上闪烁的缩影之前
在送葬队伍延伸到孤独
无边的沙丘之前
我向你伸出手,试图挽救
那个弯曲的下午夭折的光
2. 占卜师
需要怎样缓慢的、缓慢的阅读才能到达
忘却?在雨过的蛛丝上走,踮着脚
水珠无限涨大,魔幻的晶体没有核
停住!停住!断崖前的词语
我活在你的边缘,分分秒秒
的忐忑里,将自己一口一口地
吃掉。然而丝液凝滞着,打着颤
风起了,催促着,咀嚼是可耻的
来不及了,三脚凳已被踢翻
在下场暴雨之前,新叶将占满
整个树冠,那完全是另一个季节
也许仅一夜之隔,死亡
会侵入每个肢节,而最痛彻的话尚未
吐出,需要怎样缓慢的倾吐才能到达忘却?
3. 恼
这么困,整座冰山都向我移动
顽固的,砍头而重生的许德拉
那就是我,一次次,燃烧,胀大,迸裂
但不流血,可为什么发脾气,如破裂的核?
4. 大无
敲在咽喉上的
手指,没有命运
活着,在所有的高度
歌唱,没有目的
让砂纸磨去数字
比例、记忆
走钢丝的人
深渊在心,没有悬崖
除了语言的玷污
5. 中国茶室
那个下午我们遁出无忧宫。
普鲁士的冷夏,通向十八世纪的
高大的柏树列兵,墨的甬道,
烧焦的橘园,伪造的古代废墟。
狄安娜的箭囊渐渐虚空,晚祷的喷泉
碎成命运微缩的水晶球。
我们深怀恐惧,相互躲避,迷路
在一片封闭草坪的中心,呆立,
脚掌缠在巴洛克的繁密里。
“远处那个怪房子”,你手指;
“是中国茶室”,我说,我自命导航仪,
霸占着全部的生命地图,不懈地挖着战壕
时时准备偷袭。我的敌人是你。
中国茶室,雷电驰骋的西方想象
绽放出金色节日金色的人儿,戴斗笠的农夫
和长袖善舞和田螺姑娘,优雅地摆弄
梵阿玲长笛,脚尖点着小步舞曲。
我们狂笑,互不相看,胸中却涨满
雷声和急板,维瓦尔第的暴雨,
革命、血和晕厥的想象,而不敢凝视
金色裙裾上,黄昏倾倒的最后痕迹。
在青春峭壁横空出世的崖石上
我们狂热地对峙,相互仇恨,决斗,
屈服——在仰身坠落的瞬间
互相攫回,缓慢地赎罪忏悔
多年后我听见你在梦中
动物般地哀哭,用我不懂的语言
我已忘记你的容貌,目光每日穿透
被黑夜洗涤过的自己
6. The Dark Flow
We never know
how vast the water
spans, or how deep
the divers can go.
When silence falls
upon a thousand reflections
of one, crashing
a thousand images
of one, youth is sealed
with a muted glimpse
in diminuendo.
We never know
the other side of the river,
whether grasses also shiver
to a silent tune, when the wind
of desire, hatred or mistrust
blows mansions down
and the nibbling solitude
wonders in its night gown,
Or you, or I
could hear the other
across the dark flow,
heat long diffused,
sounds muffled, and we
in perpetual groping,
perpetual stumbling
against the heart stopping
void.
7. 老去
茶叶沉入杯底
蒜被刀背拍碎,每天
铿锵作响的垃圾车
在空巷里,日出之前
黑暗中秒针的战鼓
被当胸刺中的恐慌
无人的放映厅里
快进的胶片,咝咝
回响走在声音之前
8. D. 887
By the autumn pond and on the edge
of a consumed day, in shuddering tremolos
and rolling triplets, await the strings
the sabotage of night.
From iron to rust, so every note runs
in plunging scales and rapid arpeggios, and so
tarnishes the gleam on the sword
against the icy pain, reminiscent
of the maiden’s dance, when you plucked
the echo before the voice, and bloomed
in one second multifold meanings
before the word.
Yet darkness reigns. One has to bear
the silent intervals, and wait
in the prophecy of dust, to participate
in one’s own reflection of that fleeting light.
Whenever you sing, a tune is torn
into infinite shreds trembling
in the aurora of death, where
the supple lines of life dissolve
in suffering the underlying pizzicato
of Fate.
9. 化石
你呆坐在悲伤里
像干涸的谷里 一棵
被阳光洗白的树
稀薄的叶子 偶尔
晃一晃,在枯脆的午后
所有的词语都逃逸而去
垂落,碎裂
在裸露的河床上
铺展成龟裂的历史
别挖了!
热情的化石
比夜更黑
比死更冷
10. Nocturne
These words will fall
At the end of the sentence, like pearls
From the string of exhausted passions,
Off the cliff of meanings, beads scattered
To the darkness of oblivion.
Your notes will vaporize. Yet
The air already disturbed will bury
Fossils in the chest, bounce within
A subtle pain in each breath, and echo
A long, sustaining trill.
Thus is my life
Plucked,
Whirled to the vertigo of dreams,
Then submerged. |
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