导读：《企沙》原载澳大利亚Westerly; 《大象之死》原载美国Tupelo Quarterly。
杨碧薇诗二首
梁余晶 译
2012年12月21日，企沙
我们从镇上最好的酒店出来
过码头，在煤灰沉浮的天穹下
走向海心沙
谈论车螺、摇滚、出路、过往的男人
更多是谈论
我们自身迷惘的部分
2012年12月21日，传说中的世界末日
如果你把地图缩小
耐心点，再缩小
将坐标定位在
南中国北部湾这个叫企沙的小镇
就会看见我们
站在海心沙中央，抽着烟
平静地接受海水的包围
没有什么天崩地裂
我们也暂时忽略了
一直承受在内心的瓦解与毁灭
但它们的确在发生
如同海的腥咸味
风一吹，就一波又一波翻起
Qisha, 21 December 2012
We walk out of the best hotel in the town,
past the wharf, towards the Sand-in-the-Sea islet
under a sky of floating coal dust,
talking about clams, rock & roll, future, ex-relationships,
but the most of our conversation
focuses on the confusions of our own.
On 21 December 2012, the reputed end of the world,
if you zoom out on the map,
be patient, zoom out further
and locate the coordinates
of this small town called Qisha on the Gulf of Tonkin in southern China,
you’ll see us.
Standing at the centre of Sand-in-the-Sea, we smoke,
quietly letting seawater surround us.
There is no cataclysm or something.
We also ignore, for a while,
the inner destruction and collapse we have been suffering.
Yet they indeed are occurring
like the fishy, salty smell of the sea,
which, once the wind blows, rises again and again with unceasing waves.
大象之死
越来越跟不上它们的脚步了。
我该在清溪边歇歇，假装饮水，实则扪心回忆：
这一生，是否尝过疯狂的蜂蜜？
如果没有，
还可用想象补给。今年雨季以来，
似曾相识的未知渐渐贴满了我的血肉，
像远方归来的游子，
坐在秋千上，哼唱我在母腹里听过的谣曲。
那歌声弥合太初与苍老，欢迎一种限度。
永恒早已发脆变轻，它其实并不重要；
而激情消散的速度总令我惊讶，
厌倦，则比希望多出
关键的一毫克。
我唯一的心愿不过是：死在我的诞生地。
人类的无知抹脏了地球；
热带雨林，我秘密的孤儿院，
还保持体面的干净。
我懂得它无限的丰饶和伤悲。
让我再看一次湄公河上的夕阳，然后找一个
小得仅够容纳我平淡一生的洞穴，
就在那里躺下，
做满天星斗的梦。在梦里重新生长，
带着我的骨，我的牙，我的笑，
羽化为雨林的基因。
Death of an Elephant
Little by little, I fail to keep pace with them.
I’d better get some rest by the brook, pretending to drink, trying to recall:
In this life, did I ever taste mad honey?
If not,
my imagination can help. Since the onset of this rainy season,
an unknown déjà vu has increasingly clung to my flesh
like a wanderer returning from afar,
sitting on a swing, singing the ballad I once heard in my mother’s belly.
That song unites beginning and aging, longing for a limit.
Eternity has become crisp and light, and, thus, unimportant.
Passion, fading too soon, keeps surprising me,
while weariness outweighs hope
by a crucial milligram.
My only wish is to die at my birthplace.
Human ignorance has dirtied the earth.
The rainforest, my secret orphanage,
still retains a decent cleanness.
I understand its profound fertility and sorrow.
Let me see, once more, the sunset on the Mekong River
and find a cave just small enough to contain my plain life,
lying in there,
dreaming of a starry sky. In my dream, I’ll grow up again
with my bones, my tusks, my smiles,
immortalized as a gene of the forest.
梁余晶 译
2012年12月21日，企沙
我们从镇上最好的酒店出来
过码头，在煤灰沉浮的天穹下
走向海心沙
谈论车螺、摇滚、出路、过往的男人
更多是谈论
我们自身迷惘的部分
2012年12月21日，传说中的世界末日
如果你把地图缩小
耐心点，再缩小
将坐标定位在
南中国北部湾这个叫企沙的小镇
就会看见我们
站在海心沙中央，抽着烟
平静地接受海水的包围
没有什么天崩地裂
我们也暂时忽略了
一直承受在内心的瓦解与毁灭
但它们的确在发生
如同海的腥咸味
风一吹，就一波又一波翻起
Qisha, 21 December 2012
We walk out of the best hotel in the town,
past the wharf, towards the Sand-in-the-Sea islet
under a sky of floating coal dust,
talking about clams, rock & roll, future, ex-relationships,
but the most of our conversation
focuses on the confusions of our own.
On 21 December 2012, the reputed end of the world,
if you zoom out on the map,
be patient, zoom out further
and locate the coordinates
of this small town called Qisha on the Gulf of Tonkin in southern China,
you’ll see us.
Standing at the centre of Sand-in-the-Sea, we smoke,
quietly letting seawater surround us.
There is no cataclysm or something.
We also ignore, for a while,
the inner destruction and collapse we have been suffering.
Yet they indeed are occurring
like the fishy, salty smell of the sea,
which, once the wind blows, rises again and again with unceasing waves.
大象之死
越来越跟不上它们的脚步了。
我该在清溪边歇歇，假装饮水，实则扪心回忆：
这一生，是否尝过疯狂的蜂蜜？
如果没有，
还可用想象补给。今年雨季以来，
似曾相识的未知渐渐贴满了我的血肉，
像远方归来的游子，
坐在秋千上，哼唱我在母腹里听过的谣曲。
那歌声弥合太初与苍老，欢迎一种限度。
永恒早已发脆变轻，它其实并不重要；
而激情消散的速度总令我惊讶，
厌倦，则比希望多出
关键的一毫克。
我唯一的心愿不过是：死在我的诞生地。
人类的无知抹脏了地球；
热带雨林，我秘密的孤儿院，
还保持体面的干净。
我懂得它无限的丰饶和伤悲。
让我再看一次湄公河上的夕阳，然后找一个
小得仅够容纳我平淡一生的洞穴，
就在那里躺下，
做满天星斗的梦。在梦里重新生长，
带着我的骨，我的牙，我的笑，
羽化为雨林的基因。
Death of an Elephant
Little by little, I fail to keep pace with them.
I’d better get some rest by the brook, pretending to drink, trying to recall:
In this life, did I ever taste mad honey?
If not,
my imagination can help. Since the onset of this rainy season,
an unknown déjà vu has increasingly clung to my flesh
like a wanderer returning from afar,
sitting on a swing, singing the ballad I once heard in my mother’s belly.
That song unites beginning and aging, longing for a limit.
Eternity has become crisp and light, and, thus, unimportant.
Passion, fading too soon, keeps surprising me,
while weariness outweighs hope
by a crucial milligram.
My only wish is to die at my birthplace.
Human ignorance has dirtied the earth.
The rainforest, my secret orphanage,
still retains a decent cleanness.
I understand its profound fertility and sorrow.
Let me see, once more, the sunset on the Mekong River
and find a cave just small enough to contain my plain life,
lying in there,
dreaming of a starry sky. In my dream, I’ll grow up again
with my bones, my tusks, my smiles,
immortalized as a gene of the forest.
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