这就是我,干旱的月份里,一个老头子

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,

听一个孩子为我读书,等待着雨，我未曾到过火热的城门，

Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

也未曾在暖雨中廖战，更未曾在没膝的盐沼里挥舞弯刀

I was neither at the hot gates

挨着飞蝇的叮咬,苦战。

Nor fought in the warm rain

我的房子是一幢倾颓的房子

Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,

那个犹太房东蹲在窗台上，

Bitten by flies, fought.

他出生于安特卫普的某家咖啡馆，

My house is a decayed house,

在布鲁塞尔长泡,在伦敦又给人拼拼补补。

And the Jew squats on the window sill, the owner,

头上那片田野里,山羊一到夜间就咳嗽;

Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,

岩石、青苔、景天、烙铁,还有粪球

Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.

那个女人操持着厨房,煮着茶，

The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;

到傍晚打喷嚏,一边拨着劈啪的火。

Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.

								我是个老头子

The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,

风口里一个迟钝的脑瓜。

Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.

                                              I an old man,

朕兆现在被人看作奇迹。“显个朕兆给我们看看!”

A dull head among windy spaces.

道中之道,说不出一个词，

裹在黑暗中。在一年的青春期

基督老虎来了。

Signs are taken for wonders.  ‘We would see a sign!’

The word within a word, unable to speak a word,

在堕落的五月里,山荣英、栗子、开花的紫荆，

Swaddled with darkness.  In the juvescence of the year

给人吃掉,给人分掰,给人喝下，

Came Christ the tiger

在窃窃私语中,那是西尔弗罗先生

用爱抚的手,在利摩日城，

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,

他曾在隔壁的房间里通宵踱步；

To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk

Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero

那是博川先生,在提香式的画像中鞠躬，

With caressing hands, at Limoges

那是德·汤奈斯特夫人,在黯黑的房间里

Who walked all night in the next room;

移动蜡烛，冯·库尔普小姐

在大厅里转过身，一只手放在门上。

By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;

空空的梭子

By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room

织着风。我没有魂，

Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp

通风的房子里一个老头子

Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles

在多风的山丘下。

Weave the wind.  I have no ghosts,

An old man in a draughty house

有了这样的知识,得到什么宽恕呢?

Under a windy knob.

想一想,历史有许多捉弄人的通道,精心设计的走廊出口,

用窃窃私语的野心欺骗我们，

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now

又用虚荣引导我们。想一想，

History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors

我们注意力分散时她就给，

And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,

而她给的东西，又在如此微妙的混乱中给，

Guides us by vanities.  Think now

因此给更使人们感到乏。太晚地给，

She gives when our attention is distracted

那些已不再相信的,或如果还相信的

And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions

只是在记忆中重新考虑的激情；太早地给

That the giving famishes the craving.  Gives too late

给人软弱的手,那些可以不用思想的东西，

What’s not believed in, or is still believed,

最后拒绝也产生出一种恐惧。想一想，

In memory only, reconsidered passion.  Gives too soon

恐惧和勇气都不能拯救我们，违反人性的邪恶

Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with

产生于我们的英雄主义，德行

Till the refusal propagates a fear.  Think

由我们无耻的罪行强加给我们。

Neither fear nor courage saves us.  Unnatural vices

这些眼泪从怀着忿怒之果的树上采下。

Are fathered by our heroism.  Virtues

Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.

老虎在新年里跳跃。他吞下我们。最后想想，

These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

我们还未达到结论，而我

在一家出租的房子硬挺。最后想想，

The tiger springs in the new year.  Us he devours.  Think at last

我不是漫无目的地做了这番表演，

We have not reached conclusion, when I

那也不是因为向后看的魔鬼

Stiffen in a rented house.  Think at last

挑动了才做出的。

I have not made this show purposelessly

这一点上我将直率地对你说。

And it is not by any concitation

我曾经是靠近你心的，已从那里移开，

Of the backward devils.

在恐惧中失掉美，在宗教裁判中失掉恐惧。

I would meet you upon this honestly.

我已失去了我的激情：为什么我必须保持它——

I that was near your heart was removed therefrom

既然那保持的东西也必然会腐败？

To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.

我已失去了我的视觉、嗅觉、听觉、味觉和触觉；

I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it

为什么我要为了更近地接触你运用它们？

Since what is kept must be adulterated?

I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:

这些,还有一千种微不足道的深思熟虑

How should I use it for your closer contact?

延长它们冰冷了的昏话的利益，

当感受冷却了，用有味的汁液

These with a thousand small deliberations

刺激着那层薄膜，在一片镜海中

Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,

大大增加了变化。蜘蛛会做什么呢，

Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,

暂停它的作业？象鼻虫会

With pungent sauces, multiply variety

迟迟不来吗？德·拜哈什、弗莱斯卡、卡莫尔夫人

In a wilderness of mirrors.  What will the spider do

旋转着飞到抖颤的大熊星轨道之外，

Suspend its operations, will the weevil

变成了碎裂的原子。迎风展翅的海鸥，在多风的

Delay?  De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled

贝尔岛海峡，或合恩角上盘旋，

Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear

雪中的白色羽毛,为湾流索去，

In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits

一个老人,被信风驱赶到

Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,

一个昏昏欲睡的角落。

White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,

And an old man driven by the Trades

								房子的住户，

To a sleepy corner.

干旱季节里干枯头脑的思索。

                                   Tenants of the house,

Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.