城市有它自己的味道

City sand has its own taste

不是乡村的尘土，

Not the country’s dust,

但是更黑暗。

But darker.

它更强大和苦涩的部分

It’s stronger – bitter parts

在步兵的脚下。

Under infantry foot.

在五百年间的来来去去的脚下。

Under 500 years going and coming.

吉布林以最优雅的方式打开了它的门——

Kipling’s finest up and over –

穿过走廊，

Through the pass,

穿过士兵曾经站立过的

Through the places where soldiers stood

坚实的白雪。

In stolid white snow.

走廊两旁是墓地，

Cemeteries in the pass where Alexander’s own

在这里亚历山大的士兵栽倒在方形的石头上。

Fell on the square rocks.

铺满了光滑的河石，

Paved with smoothed over river rock,

开口的坟墓——惨白，赤裸。

This open grave – white, bare.

喀布尔的沙磨平了每个人的棱角。

Kabul sand polishes everyone’s edges.

塔吉克人削尖了犄角

Tajiks sharp on the cusp

于是北方联盟大举南下

And Northern Alliance coming down

加入混战。

Hard in the fray.

他们的刀尖瞄准对方的喉咙。

They all want each other’s throats.

他们的妻子们消失在战斗中——

Their wives lost in the fight –

只有她们的高跟鞋和金手镯

Save for pointed heels and

还能在这个世界上找到。

Gold bangled over fine red henna.

东方的沙和南方的沙，

Eastern sand and southern sand,

巴基斯坦的沙就像断齿一样扭曲，

Pakistan sand crooked as broken teeth,

赫拉特纯洁的沙升到顶端。

Herati sand pure and rising to the top.

没有什么可以混和也没有中间地带。

Nothing mixes and there is no space in between.

如果上帝对此地有爱亦非此时。

If God loved this place he doesn’t now.

如果他在呼吸，那这呼吸只存在于黄铜弹壳，

If He breathed in the brass bullet casings

柴油空气和恶毒的祈祷文中间，

And the diesel air and spiteful prayers.

在欲望和肮脏的儿童中间，

A place for lust and dirty children

在夜晚隐藏的生物中间。

And the things night can hide.

在这里长出的生物被男人隐藏——

What things grown men can hide-

在他们自己孩子房间黑暗的角落里。

In the dark corners of their own children’s rooms.

在没有大师也没有学徒的首都巨大的阴影里。

In the big shadows of a capital with no master and no disciple.

没有什么能让生物们步调一致

No scope for all things to come together

沙子尘土和泥垢让万物生长——

The sand and the dust and the dirt that makes things grow-

当它们被人们遗忘之时。

When it is left alone.

但是我们把手伸进了这里

But we’ve put our fingers in it

手拔脚踏一番

And the stirring and stamping won’t leave

并不能给生长的万物留下什么。

Much for the growing.

沙尘暴和龙卷风会拿走剩下的一切。

Dust bowls and cyclone air will take the rest.

每个村庄如今被它们充满——

Every village is filled with it now –

我们的炸弹掀起了尘土，我们的装甲车盛满了尘土。

Dust from our bombs and inside our APCs.

尘土被枪机磨碎

Dirt scrubbed from our rifle actions

洒到我们汗津津的手掌上就像密西西比的淤泥。

And ground into our sweaty palms like Mississippi silt.

但是没有什么东西长出来。

And still nothing grows.

我曾经在十七座村庄单膝跪下——

I’ve taken a knee in seventeen villages –

在街角和破碎的环形路上，

On street corners and broken down roundabouts,

在高速公路和炸烂的家中。

On highways and in shattered homes.

在直升机里和小教堂的胶合板楼梯上，

On helo pads and plywood chapel steps,

在死去的男人——

On the backs of dead men-

和尖叫的女人背上。

And screaming vile women.

它们，所有的这一切，都将要弯曲和崩裂——

They will, all of them, bend or break –

我和它们都将如此，

It is either them or me.

所有的胜利和失败，

It’s either winning or losing

所有硬插进来的，不属于这块土地的东西

And putting in its place

都将如此。

What does not belong,

而不同颜色不同味道的沙子，

Sand of a different taste and hue

并不会向我说“抱歉”。

That cannot tell me it is sorry.