“你躺在大地上已经很久，浑浑噩噩”

你躺在大地上已经很久，浑浑噩噩，

碌碌无为，钟声终于响起

你从睡梦中清醒，抬起

昏沉的头，伸直弯曲的背脊。

椎骨脆裂，劈啪作响——如闪电

千奇百怪，发出骇人致命的

轰响，骄傲的天空突然间颤抖，

抖落下圆石一般硕大的冰雹，

冰雹在飞翔中变成尖锐的

细长的水滴，就像种子，

渴望发芽，无论如何一定

要长大：无论像翡翠般的青草或者

榛树林，或者任何一种稠密的

灌木林。——你躺在地上已经很久，

浑浑噩噩，碌碌无为，但那就是——

你忠实等待的东西，时间，——

因为厌恶这忙乱，最好睡过去，

一动不动，沉沉地睡过这短短的世纪，

总好过在黑暗中用细碎的脚步

踏过这凸凹不平的大地。

有时绊上一跤，你也会欢快地笑笑，

并且说道：“一切都好，好极了！”——

因为不知道你的真名，所以

人们把你叫做河流——言语之河。

“Long now you’ve lounged in earth”

Long now you’ve lounged in earth—futile,

useless—but at last your hour’s struck:

you stirred from sleep, roused

your head’s dead yoke, and aligned a crooked

spine, its vertebrae cracking like lightning—

a vast array of thunder’s fearsome

peals, which lead now to the hail stones

these high heavens shed and shudder,

each transforms and tapers on the fly

into droplets thirsting to germinate, akin

to seeds, heedless of how

they’ll sprout, whether as emerald herb,

hazel woods, or some other verdant

shoot....You’ve lounged in earth so long now—

futile, useless—but here it is, the moment

you faithfully tarried till:

for it is better to oversleep

your own short age, disdaining all

earthly vanity, than to grope dimly down

its crenellated top, stumbling across

with hesitant steps and carefree

laughter, preaching “All’s well! Superb!”

That’s why those who don’t know

your true name call you a river of words.

抄写员的自白

我是一名抄写员，从未离开过圣母，

　我在她的身边已经三十或四十载，

我懂得不多：书籍将没有生命，如果

　里面既无笔误，也无偶尔的失言；

时间用筛子无情地

　筛出了写下的易碎的沙粒；

文章的本质就在字里行间，

　在节略符中隐藏，在花体首字母中显现。

我是一名抄写员，我的衣衫很简单，

　家具既没有珠母的光泽，更不会金光闪闪

床板——用来睡觉，嘴巴——用来祈祷，

　夜晚消磨时光——清晨任劳任怨：

任何一本书中从开头到结尾

　都感觉在拼死会战，

白白地浪费了一刀纸

　我的祈祷却不能帮助你。

我是一名抄写员，这个手艺没什么光鲜

　它在世间让光阴延长：

书籍慢慢衰老朽迈，——它们的数量

　我不会忘记：三部诗篇、

二十部使徒行传、九部帕里亚书、七部蜜蜂图鉴

　五部创世纪，每部的报酬都是计件，——

如果我通晓文墨，

　我就会通读自己抄写的书卷。

The Scribe’s Confession

I am a scribe. I haven’t left my cloister

　in lo some thirty or forty years,

but this much I know: a book’s dead if no

　errata or proviso appears,

for its essence begins where the text ends,

　clear in its illumination, obscured in its title.

Time sieves the sand of what’s written

　through the wire mesh of a riddle.

I am a scribe. My clothing is simple;

　my instruments don’t dazzle with gold

or mother-of-pearl. I’ve a plank-bed to sleep on,

　lips for praying; I work while morning unfolds.

In any book you’ll find a battle

　waged—from first line to finis—to the death,

without which no quire’s completed.

　And prayers? Oh no, save your breath.

I am a scribe. My humble craft

　is my short life’s lasting balm.

Books decay slowly. I remember precisely

　how many I’ve done: three Psalms,

twenty Apostols, and nine Palaea Historicas,

　five Hexamerons, and seven Bees.

I’d pore through all I’ve copied out, imbibe

　the wisdom in words, if only I could read.

♫