本帖最后由 雨荷风 于 2015-10-8 03:22 编辑
古城之歌
阿玛尔•艾尔-莫塔 著
覃思 译
商人啊,请收起您的玫瑰油,
您的琥珀,您的没药
乌得琴,与檀香料。 我要的
不过是
手中所捧之尘埃;
像粒菜籽,像枚钱币,
像把锈旧的老钥匙。
我要的
如此而已;可它又非
仅是泥地。它是呼吸,
鲜活城邦之气,
是笛骨女之曲
及她唇间纯精的气息。那尘埃,
在击鼓声中颤落,门开,少女的鞋底
踩过石梯;那尘埃
散似桂皮粉末,我要批尘如衣
如少女头戴百合与茉莉。
如是 那尘土覆肤的,
碧眼孩子,兴许哭叫,她走了,
那位女子,喉腔载着
七千年历史;她走了,
那位女子,双唇轻启
便倾出蒙古部族,大漠车骑,马穆鲁克奴隶。
这双唇尚解玫瑰风情,
更通晓初晖下之神殿光盈!
大马士革,大马士革。
一支我唱给自己的歌。
我要寻到她的唇,印上我的痕,
贴上她的手,
看我们手指相契与否。她
就是那声响,像那
钱币,骰子杯中荡,像那
马吃车、王易位时的落棋
击打在石膏的棋盘上;她
就是那手鼓卡鼓的欢闹,
而你们这些手挂香料串的商贩啊!
她湮没你们的叹息与埋怨,
她湮没你们齐特琴的曲调。
尘埃匿藏在她的笑。
我要一饮而尽,任这喧嚣与狭道
令我口干舌燥,
直到她化作我喉间焦烁的痛感,腹中带刺的
玫瑰花,连香带伤向外滋长,
直戳肺脏。我甚也不要。
我双眼精油四溅,
融进她的尘埃我的盐,
我十指入浸她的坚石,
而后送到我的唇边。
Song for an Ancient City
Amal El-Mohtar
Merchant, keep your attar of roses,
your ambers, your oud,
your myrrh and sandalwood. I need
nothing but this dust
palmed in my hand’s cup
like a coin, like a mustard seed,
like a rusted key.
I need
no more than this, this earth
that isn’t earth, but breath,
the exhalation of a living city, the song
of a flute-boned woman,
air and marrow on her lips. This dust,
shaken from a drum, a door opening, a girl’s heel
on stone steps, this dust
like powdered cinnamon, I would wear
as other girls wear jasmine and lilies,
that a child with seafoam eyes
and dusky skin might cry, there
goes a girl with seven thousand years
at the hollow of her throat, there
goes a girl who opens her mouth to pour
caravans, mamelukes, a mongolian horde
from lips that know less of roses
than of temples in the rising sun!
Damascus, Dimashq
is a song I sing to myself. I would find
where she keeps her mouth, meet it with mine,
press my hand against her palm
and see if our fingers match. She
is the sound, the feel
of coins shaken in a cup, of dice,
the alabaster clap of knight claiming rook,
of kings castling — she is the clamour
of tambourines and dirbakki,
nays sighing, qanouns musing, the complaint
of you merchants with spice-lined hands,
and there is dust in her laughter.
I would drink it, dry my tongue
with this noise, these narrow streets,
until she is a parched pain in my throat, a thorned rose
growing outwards from my belly’s pit, aching fragrance
into my lungs. I need no other. I
would spill attar from my eyes,
mix her dust with my salt,
steep my fingers in her stone
and raise them to my lips.
注:这首诗原发表于《Mythic Delirium》杂志第19期2008年夏秋号,是2009年雷斯灵奖最佳短诗奖得主。
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