新诗在线第57期|沈浩波诗二首|梁余晶 译

雨夜人鱼

沈浩波诗二首

梁余晶 译

跑步

有一天早晨

我沿着牵牛花攀援的篱笆墙开始跑步

天空像一条青色的履带

我在地球上跑，我在天空里跑

我在跑，苹果树和我一起跑

白云像牛奶向下倾泻我们跑

肮脏的河流像一条小狗我们一起跑

把堤坝卷起来，把坦克装进口袋我们跑

麻雀从我的胸口飞出，它的叫声在跑

火车开进我的眼睛，像一条英俊的眉毛

跑过乞丐流着脓的中午

跑过穷人燃烧的双腿我们一起跑

柳树的枝叶在阳光下闪闪发光

像母亲的梳子在她芳香的发梢我们跑

孩子们带上你们的糖果我们一起跑

跑过太平洋和大西洋我们一起跑

抱着潜水艇胖胖的肚子

把它送给大白鲨当玩具我们跑

跑过悉尼和纽约，带上那些肚子太大的男人我们跑

玩帆板的白人和打篮球的黑人我们一起跑

跑过耶路撒冷，跑过叙利亚的玫瑰和波斯的菊花

用巧克力交换他们的枪炮我们一起跑

所有丰满的身躯都应该在这天空中奔跑

不管她的脸上是否戴着黑色的面纱我们跑

我能跑过每一条河流和海洋

却跑不过任何一滴泪水

有时我看到天空之下全都是泪水

夜空旋转，每一滴泪水都是一颗星星

我踩着地球奔跑，在旋转的星空下我们跑

亲吻祖先从坟墓中睁开的眼睛我们一起跑

即使在干涸的苦难中，依然有心灵

可以用来哭泣，带上哭泣的心我们跑

带上那些被击碎的声带我们跑

带上村庄里所有的哑巴我们跑

我们跑因为喉咙里有愤怒的鲜花等待绽放我们跑

我们跑因为心灵里有海洋要淹没这人世我们跑

跑过子弹飞舞的黎明，跑过监狱被黄昏咬断的铁栅

带着鸽子和鹰我们一起跑，带着太阳和月亮我们跑

亲吻那些把脸埋藏在在暴政之下的人

亲吻高原上磕着长头渴求解脱的信徒

他们的头颅深深的抵在大地的额角，来吧，我们一起跑

他们将成为天空中闪亮洁净和芳香的菩萨，我们一起跑

和前世的痛苦一起跑，和今生的悲伤一起跑

和往生后的极乐一起跑，和世上所有的寺庙一起跑

我在地球上跑，天空像一条青色的履带我们跑

我在天空跑，脚下踩着小小的地球我们一起跑

我踩着地球跑，像踩着小小的水车我们跑

像鸟儿踩着刚刚分娩出的热气腾腾的蛋我们跑

我在天空的深处跑，地球在我的脚下变小

像一颗泥丸，像一枚透明的心脏

我踩着属于我的透明的心在宇宙中孤独的跑

我要找一个温暖的洞穴，把它放进去，我在跑

像忙碌的上帝一样跑

像离群的羊一样跑

像时间一样跑，像轮回一样跑

永恒是一座荒凉的庙

隔世的我从庙中跑出

像从死中醒来

Jog

One morning

I set off at a jog along the fence covered with morning glories.

The sky resembles an azure track.

I run on the earth. I run in the sky.

I run, the apple trees and I run together.

White clouds pouring down like milk we run.

Filthy rivers like a little dog we run together.

Dams rolled up, tanks put in the pocket we run.

Sparrows flying out of my chest, their chirps run.

The train runs into my eyes like a handsome brow.

I run past a beggar with abscesses at noon,

past the burning legs of the poor we run together.

The willow leaves glitter under the sunlight

like the comb in my mother’s scented hair we run together.

Children, take your sweets we run together.

Past the Pacific the Atlantic we run together.

Hold the chubby belly of the submarine.

Give it to the great white shark as a toy let’s run.

Past Sydney and New York, with the fat-bellied men we run,

with the whites windsurfing and the blacks playing basketball we run together.

Past Jerusalem, past Syrian roses and Persian chrysanthemums,

exchange their guns with chocolates we run together.

All the plump bodies should run under this sky.

Whether she wears a black face veil or not we run.

I’m able to run past every river and sea,

unable to run past any teardrops.

Sometimes I see tears everywhere under the sky.

The night sky spins, every tear is a star.

I run on the earth, under the spinning starry sky we run.

Kissing the ancestors’ eyes opened in their tombs we run together.

Even in the dried-up misery there’s a heart

for weeping, with the weeping heart we run.

With those broken vocal cords we run.

With all the mutes in the village we run.

We run because there are angry flowers in the throat to bloom we run.

We run because there’s an ocean in the heart to drown the world we run.

Past the dawn of flying bullets, past the jail bars snapped by the dusk.

With doves and eagles we run together, with the sun and the moon we run.

Kissing those who bury their faces in tyranny.

Kissing the believers kowtowing on the plateau for relief.

Their heads deep down against the earth’s forehead. Come, let’s run.

They will become the bodhisattvas shiny, clean and fragrant in the sky we run together.

Run with the pain of the previous life, with the sadness of this life,

with the great bliss of the afterlife, with all the temples in the world.

I run on the earth, the sky resembling an azure track we run.

I run in the sky, the small earth under my feet we run together.

Feet on the earth I run, as if on a small waterwheel we run.

Just as birds tread on their warm, freshly laid eggs we run.

I run in the depths of the sky, the earth underfoot getting smaller

like a mud pellet, like a transparent heart.

On the transparent heart that belongs to me I run alone in the universe.

I want to find a warm cave to place it in I run.

Like busy God I run.

Like a stray lamb I run.

Like time I run. Like samsara I run.

Eternity is a bleak temple.

In another life I run out of the temple

as if waking up from death.

星空之问

一个人仰望星空

一个人面对宇宙无数光年的荒凉

一个人处在荒凉的核心

一个人被这荒凉的美包裹

此刻，我在罗纳瓦拉仰望星空

有没有一个遥远时间中的印度人

在同样的时刻，同样的地方

仰望这片星空？

但宇宙和星空

并没有发现我和他

这两个可怜的凝望者

——他们甚至参与了星空的转动

——他们甚至命名了太阳、月亮和冥王星

而那在时间中，和我一起仰望星空的他是谁？

一个僧侣，还是无望的贱民？

他看到了什么？美丽还是荒凉？

对于星空来说，我们都一样

对于我们来说，星空是那样的不同

他到死也不知道星空是什么

无知为他带来绝望与纯粹的美

但我又何尝不是无知的？

这些石头

这些发光的或者不发光的

有生命的或者死寂的

燃烧的或者爆炸的

已死的或者新生的

这些不系之舟

这些蜉蝣

这些孑孓

这些滚落在宇宙中无人享用的冻梨

这些茫然的雨滴

这些等待啼鸣的鸟喙

宇宙是一个墓场，群星如磷火

那些已经死去

尸骨无存的星星

此刻仍然，在我凝望的眼帘中闪烁

我伸出双手

被它烫成白骨

死亡永远严厉，不可亲近

死去的星星

死去的人

死亡没有秘密

在永恒的失去之中

我们仍需反复确证我们的存在

我是我？

我是僧侣？

我是无望的贱民？

这一刻，我们存在

上一刻，我们曾经存在

永恒的失去

证明了永恒的存在

证明了天空之永恒

宇宙之永恒

死去的星星之永恒

温暖和寒冷之永恒

你之永恒

我之永恒

母爱之永恒

严厉的父亲之永恒

也许我即那僧人

也许那僧人即我

也许我们都是

无望之贱民

我看到孤寂的我

苦修的行者

在人世中穿行

冷漠、无言，向着更深的时空

渴望一次灵魂的射精

或者把自己关进山洞

封闭所有的感官

关掉毛孔和六识

拒绝再看一眼这个世界

也拒绝这片世界的星空

他心中另有世界

如同熊熊烈火在燃烧

他朝黑洞般的身体里看去

身体里可有另外的星辰？

在更深的冥想中

他到底看到了什么而热泪盈眶？

为摆脱此生之绝望而要

摆脱覆盖在头顶的星空吗？

他要逃离

但他舍不得世人

他恐惧于病和死

无论如何

他都首先是一个恐惧于死亡的王子

但是僧人啊

人世间最大的悲苦不是病和死

而是被奴役和不平等

躲在深山中的老僧

从灵魂的山洞中爬出

满身白毛

廋骨嶙峋

恍若濒死之老猿

抬头一看

星空仍在头顶

日出日落

星起星灭

大河奔流

牛羊吃草

冰山万仞

雄鹰唳叫

此生即世界

世界即此生

而我仿佛从梦中醒来

重新在罗纳瓦拉仰望星空

我们不是一块石头掉入大海

不是一颗星星死于孤寂

宇宙威严

像活死人的脸

有多少个宇宙

仿佛雕像林立？

一群神情痴呆的雕像

我们为何要把它们想象为慈祥？

哪怕我曾经是你和你们

是我和无数我

在轮回中

我们被最高的秘密指引

在宇宙中如尘埃翻滚

但你仍是你

我仍是我

哪怕短暂如光年中的脚步

如悲惨者一生中唯一的微笑

Questions Under the Starry Sky

Alone, looking up at the starry sky.

Alone, facing the bleakness of numerous light years in the universe.

Alone, standing at the core of the bleakness.

Alone, wrapped by the bleak beauty.

This moment, I’m in Lonavala looking into the starry sky.

In a distant time, was there an Indian

at the same hour and place

looking up at this starry sky?

But the starry sky and the universe

never discover him and me—

the two poor gazers

who have even partaken in the spinning of the starry sky,

who have even named the sun, the moon and Pluto.

Yet who was the one in time looking into the starry sky with me?

A monk, or a hopeless Dalit?

What did he see? Beauty or bleakness?

For the starry sky, we are the same.

For us, the starry sky is so different.

He didn’t know all his life what the starry sky was.

Ignorance brought him pure, despairing beauty.

But aren’t I also ignorant?

Those stones.

Those luminous or non-luminous,

alive or deathly still,

burning or exploding,

dead or newborn.

Those anchorless boats.

Those mayflies.

Those mosquito larvae.

Those untouched frozen pears rolling down the universe.

Those blank raindrops.

Those beaks waiting to chirp.

The universe is a burial ground where stars are will-o’-the-wisps.

Those already dead stars

with no bones left

are still twinkling before my gazing eyes.

My hands stretched out

are scalded into a skeleton.

Death is forever austere, unapproachable.

The dead stars.

The dead people.

Death conceals no secrets.

In eternal loss

we still have to repeatedly confirm our being.

Am I me?

Am I a monk?

Am I a hopeless Dalit?

This moment, we arebeing.

Last moment, we used to be.

Eternal loss

proves eternal being

and the eternality of the sky,

of the universe,

of the dead stars,

of warmth and coldness,

of you,

of me,

of maternal love,

of the stern father.

Perhaps I am the monk

and the monk was me.

Perhaps we are both

hopeless Dalits.

I see a lonely me,

an abstinent monk

walking through the mortal world,

cold-faced, wordless, towards the deeper space,

longing for an ejaculation of the soul

or confining himself to a cave

with all his senses shut down,

pores and the six consciousnesses closed,

refusing to take another look at the world

or the starry sky above it.

There is another world in his heart

burning in raging flames.

He looks into the black hole of his body—

will he find another starry sky in there?

In deeper meditations

what on earth does he see that moves him to tears?

To cast off the despair of this life,

will he have to abandon the starry sky over him?

He wants to run away

while reluctant to leave the human world,

still afraid of illness and death.

In any case,

he is above all a prince afraid of death.

Oh monk,

the greatest sorrow in the world is not illness or death

but slavery and inequality.

The old monk hiding in the deep mountains

crawls out of the cave of his soul,

covered with white hair,

skinny

like a dying old ape.

He looks up,

sees the starry sky still there above.

The sun rises and sets.

Stars show up and go out.

A great river flows.

Cattle and sheep feed on grass.

Icy mountains stand tall.

Eagles keep crying.

This life is the world.

The world, this life.

I seem to wake up from a dream,

looking into the starry sky again in Lonavala.

We are not a stone falling into the sea,

nor a star dying of loneliness.

The universe is awe-inspiring

like the faces of the living dead.

How many universes are there

like a cluster of statues?

A crowd of dull-faced statues,

why shall we imagine them as kindly?

Even if I used to be you and you’s,

used to be me and numerous me’s,

in samsara

we are guided by the highest secret,

wallowing in the universe like dust.

But you are still you,

me still me,

though we are short as a step in light years

like the only smile in the lives of the miserable.

注：《跑步》原载新西兰《着陆》（Landfall）；《星空之问》原载英国《长诗杂志》（Long Poem Magazine）