裸体：激情研究

你躺在沙发上

与我坐的地方形成

对角线

你这样凝视着我，而佯装不看你

此时你在想些什么？

如果我呼唤你

你富有弹性而修长的身体

会跑向我

此刻你的身体会想些什么？

耳朵隐缩

毛茸茸的爪子收敛

正在穿过你眼白的是：

一轮新月

还是青青的草地？

当你睡去，正如在其他时候，

你在经历怎样的梦：

母亲，狩猎，一只柔软的手，抑或一个完美的

跳跃

很有高度，而且潇洒的跳跃？

地点：有一天

不冷的夜晚

会庇护我们

它必须

（只能这样）

与其他的夜晚

一样吗？

Nude: A Study in Poignancy

What are you thinking about

when you look at me like that,

as you lie on the sofa,

diagonal to the place I sit,

with me pretending not to look at you?

What is your body thinking about,

your long, elastic body,

ready to come to me

if I call?

Ears slightly pricked,

paws furled,

what can you see now in the whites of your eyes:

a crescent moon,

a pale meadow?

And when you sleep, at other times,

what dreams travel through you:

your mother, a mouse, a soft hand, a leap

so perfect

and high, so lithe?

Where: the uncold night

that will one day

shelter us

and that will

(as it must)

be the same for both?

关于最纯粹的记忆：或者火焰

昨晚，临睡前

最纯粹的快乐

来自一片天空

在我的睡眠中滑行，庄重的

激情　　　　最纯粹的快乐

是在孩子与成人之间度过一天

那是在乡村，

早上六点半醒来

睁开眼睛看着木门，听着人们

开门的声音，门不是我房间的门

闻到无法形容的味道

是一种介于最清新的事物

和晨光之间的

味道　　　　是夏天的炙热

这最纯粹的快乐

天空如血

时至今日，昨日临睡之前

眼泪依旧像以前那样涌进眼眶，突然

太阳如浩大的燃烧

还有气味　　　　和色彩

然而我站在那里，青春无限

死亡多么遥远

没有人死去，没有死者列队

只有活着的人，笑声，气味

以及阳光

这是生活，这是选择的权利

以及诸如此类：

床，新鲜如瀑布般的床单

柔软得如舶来品一样来到一个新国家

还有打开的　　木门

以及燃烧的　　　　天空

这一切恍如昨晚

黑暗中光在闪耀，在临睡前

……

今天，在这个没有太阳的早晨，报纸在谈论

如此野蛮的事情

如此骇人听闻的事情，犹如无名的人民

没有阳光给他们带来色彩的早晨和时间

报纸在谈论那些死者，他们没有经历生命

他们的生命被腰斩　　　　地球上暴力横行

制造着其他死者

他们很少被记起，甚至被忘记

我想知道，这回忆中的纯粹快乐在哪儿？

哪里可以把它容纳

它昨晚占据了我睡眠的走廊

躺在我的身旁。

重新占有　　变为运动

美好的物品装入美好的柳条筐

那一天的天空多么美好

面对我昨晚　　看见的火焰

哪里可以容纳我回忆中的快乐？

哪里　　有快乐的色彩？它的切口是那么清晰

像是在催生原子的

爆炸

如何使用时间？如何伪装时间？

……

而　　时间与时间同居一处

同一个走廊　　给予它们空间

和火焰

About the Purest Memories: Or about Light

Last night, just before sleeping

the purest of joys

a sky

came slipping into my almost-sleep, a solemn

feeling　　　　　　　　　　　the pure joy

of a day when I was half-child half-grown

in the village it was

waking at half past six in the morning,

eyes fxed on the wooden shutters, the sound

they made when opened, the shutters

of a room not mine, the smell

its name absent

but a smell

between cool and just-beginning

light　　　　　　　　it was the summer heat,

pure joy

a sky so blood red

that even today, even yesterday before sleeping

the tears come as they did then, and suddenly

the sun like a spreading fire

and the smell　　　the colours

But it was being there, being so young

and death so far off,

when there were no dead no funeral processions,

only the living, the laughter, the smell

the light

it was life and being able to choose,

or so it seemed:

the bed and the cool cascades of sheets

soft as strangers arriving in a new land,

or the wooden shutters　　　　　open

and the fire　　　　　　　　　　　of the sky

This was last night,

this splendour in the dark, before sleeping

……

Today, the newspapers on this sunless morning

speak of things so brutal

and so flagrant, like peoples without names, without light

to bring them dawn colours and times,

of dead people who did not pass through life

but had their lives cut short　　the violence of standing

on this earth　　　　　　on others who have died

scarce remembered or remembered not at all

And I wonder where it is, where it fits

the pure recollected joy

that met me on the corridor into sleep,

and lay down beside me last night

remade　　　　　　　　made motion,

beautiful merchandise to fill a very beautiful wicker basket,

as beautiful as the sky that day

Where does joy recollected fit

face to face with the fire I saw　　　last night?

and where　　the colours of joy?　　its shape as clear

as if fed by some atom

exploding

And what of time? How make mock of time?

………

And yet　different times　coexist

And the same　　　corridor gives them space

and light.

中文翻译：姚风

Translated from Portuguese to English by Margaret Jull Costa

♫