#全球诗选#
【穆罕穆德·达尔维什:大地正压迫我们】
大地正压迫我们,陷我们于最后的通道。
为通过,我们扯断四肢。
大地正推挤我们。
愿我们是它的麦,死去又重生。
愿它是我们的母亲,待我们以悲悯。
愿我们是岩画,如镜般带入我们的梦。
我们瞥见那些为灵魂做最后一战的人,
瞥见那些要被我们之中最后的生者杀死的人。
我们悲悼他们孩子的节庆。
我们看见那些人要把我们的孩子扔出这最后空间的窗外,
一颗星来擦亮我们的镜子。
最后的边界不在后,我们当去何方?
最后的天空消失后,飞鸟应飞何处?
最后的微风止息后,草木该眠何所?
用猩红的雾霭我们书写我们的名。
用自己的肉体我们终结这首颂诗。
此处,我们将死去。此处,于最后的通道。
此处或彼处,我们的血将植下枣椰树。
Earth is pressing against us, trapping us in the final passage.
To pass through, we pull off our limbs.
Earth is squeezing us. If only we were its wheat, we might die and yet live.
If only it were our mother so that she might temper us with mercy.
If only we were pictures of rocks held in our dreams like mirrors.
We glimpse faces in their final battle for the soul, of those who will be killed
by the last living among us.
We mourn their children's feast.
We saw the faces of those who would throw our children out of the windows
of this last space.
A star to burnish our mirrors.
W here should we go after the last border? Where should birds fly after the
last sky?
W here should plants sleep after the last breath of air?
We write our names with crimson mist!
We end the hymn with our flesh.
Here we will die. Here, in the final passage.
Here or there, our blood will plant olive trees.
【穆罕穆德·达尔维什:大地正压迫我们】
大地正压迫我们,陷我们于最后的通道。
为通过,我们扯断四肢。
大地正推挤我们。
愿我们是它的麦,死去又重生。
愿它是我们的母亲,待我们以悲悯。
愿我们是岩画,如镜般带入我们的梦。
我们瞥见那些为灵魂做最后一战的人,
瞥见那些要被我们之中最后的生者杀死的人。
我们悲悼他们孩子的节庆。
我们看见那些人要把我们的孩子扔出这最后空间的窗外,
一颗星来擦亮我们的镜子。
最后的边界不在后,我们当去何方?
最后的天空消失后,飞鸟应飞何处?
最后的微风止息后,草木该眠何所?
用猩红的雾霭我们书写我们的名。
用自己的肉体我们终结这首颂诗。
此处,我们将死去。此处,于最后的通道。
此处或彼处,我们的血将植下枣椰树。
Earth is pressing against us, trapping us in the final passage.
To pass through, we pull off our limbs.
Earth is squeezing us. If only we were its wheat, we might die and yet live.
If only it were our mother so that she might temper us with mercy.
If only we were pictures of rocks held in our dreams like mirrors.
We glimpse faces in their final battle for the soul, of those who will be killed
by the last living among us.
We mourn their children's feast.
We saw the faces of those who would throw our children out of the windows
of this last space.
A star to burnish our mirrors.
W here should we go after the last border? Where should birds fly after the
last sky?
W here should plants sleep after the last breath of air?
We write our names with crimson mist!
We end the hymn with our flesh.
Here we will die. Here, in the final passage.
Here or there, our blood will plant olive trees.
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Pull等好好听
Pull等好好听
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