llllll

沉默年代

iiii
iiiii








密室裡的殘破沉吟
大孤鳥一悲鳴 
聽這黯淡離異 
聽那酣睡中的聲浪 
天與地 荒老與磨難 
一場交戰一條永無止息的里路

ii
愛可否燒盡化作灰燼
淋漓是嘔心泣血的詩記
荒廢的書架飽嚐輝光
在石頭上增加空白的名字他知道
又變成那正在開啟的一頁
iii


曠野裡，
有聲音直道: 近了！
你可自由呼吸！！ 

iiii

我們的腳步流浪過
我們的那些早晨
雷聲剛倒下
在水塘旁的草地上
陰影呢喃口渴的樣子
蘋果樹支著天空開花
可是卻奓迷著
神秘的薄荷氣息
啊 記憶

Passer-By, These Are Words
by Yves Bonnefoy  1923 - present

Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading
I want you to listen: to this frail
Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.

Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee
Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names.
It flits between two sprays of leaves,
Carrying the sound of branches that are real
To those that filigree the still unseen.

Then know an even fainter sound, and let it be
The endless murmuring of all our shades.
Their whisper rises from beneath the stones
To fuse into a single heat with that blind
Light you are as yet, who can still gaze.

May your listening be good! Silence
Is a threshold where a twig breaks in your hand,
Imperceptibly, as you attempt to disengage
A name upon a stone:

And so our absent names untangle your alarms.
And for you who move away, pensively,
Here becomes there without ceasing to be.