吕德安
风喜欢收藏你身上的东西。
我以为那句话就是诗歌，
因为我喜欢它的圣经的口气。
我从窗口望出去，世界
发生了变化。而诗歌的瞳孔变小：
怎么办？我但愿他指的是其他东西，
可偏偏是它：一顶皱巴巴的帽子。
我记得那天自己心神恍惚，
冥冥中仿佛还看见沙漠后面
多出一块沙漠。“哎！等等！”
我喊了一声，这才意识到风，
然而我再去抓住它已经来不及。
我笑自己只能眼巴巴地看着，望着
那红红的一团如何顽固地翻滚，
最后落入埃及人的墓穴。怎么办？
就像一支落日的歌，就在几步远的地方，
我知道喜欢颤抖又喜欢躲藏，
是帽子的疯子本性，
不过那片满是黑洞的大地，
倒也是它完美而合适的去处──
我这么想，才让人高兴写了信──
一个守墓人，我知道他把它一直当作一回事：
他说，风喜欢收藏我身上的东西，
他说他每天都去对那些黑洞喊一声“哈罗！”
真是没头没脑，可打那以后，
我忽然明白这不光是一句俏皮话，
也常觉得在一个人身上其实
没有什么是不可以放下的了。
In Egypt
Once upon a time, someone wrote me from far away:
The wind will collect the things you carry.
I thought that line was poetry,
since I liked its biblical tone.
Looking out the window, the world
had changed. But then poetry’s pupils constricted:
What could be done? I wished he had something else in mind,
but that was all it was: a crumpled hat.
I remember being perturbed all day,
as if I could make out in the darkness beyond the desert
another stretch of desert. “Hey! Wait!”
I shouted, only to realize the wind, and
by the time I went to grab it, it was too late.
I laughed at myself for only being able to watch, to witness
its redness rolling stubbornly along,
before falling into an Egyptian tomb. What could be done?
Like a song of sunset, only a few steps away,
I knew it liked to tremble and also to hide,
that is the mad nature of hats.
But that land of black holes
was the perfect and most appropriate destination─
putting it this way makes me happy to write back─
I knew he would take it seriously, keeping vigil over a grave:
he said, The wind will collect the things you carry,
he said that every day he shouts hello! to the black holes.
It’s incoherent, but at that moment,
I suddenly realized it was more than just a witty remark.
I have often sensed that there’s actually nothing
we carry that we cannot also let go.
Translated from Chinese by Lucas Klein
一棵树
吕德安
想想吧，当一棵树摇晃
累累果实中间
便有一个孩子在摇晃
想想这个秋天的孩子摇晃
叫那蓄满一天的雨
尽数洒落，毫不吝啬
想想他正在哑巴似
让一场固执的雨
逐渐变得稀薄.....
想想冬天，当孩子消失
而树会自己融化
中间满是空缺
它先是掉下一块
不到巴掌大，就像乌鸦
嘴里的那块肉
然后是一棵树的雪崩
和一天的遗忘
而生活仿佛仍在原处
继续掉落东西
那东西快乐而茂密
像谎言
A Tree
Think about it, when a tree sways
somewhere in all its fruit
a child is swaying
think about this autumn child swaying
and making all the rain stored up in a day
completely fall, bounteously
think of him like a mute
making an obstinate rain
gradually grow thin …
think of winter, when the child disappears
and the tree melts on its own
from all the absences within it
first it sheds something
not as big as a palm, like a piece of meat
out of a crow’s beak
then a tree avalanche
and a day’s forgetting
while life seems to stay where it was
still dropping things
things happy and dense
like a lie
Translated from Chinese by Lucas Klein
相关阅读
欢迎关注
编辑 | 排版：文煜
