我们的诗人们在朝什么微笑？

我们的诗人们在朝什么微笑？

并没什么可笑的，在我们的部落里。

我们中有很多，倒在沟坎里，被谋杀。

我们的女人和孩子们赤着脚，饥肠辘辘。

闻所未闻的疾病正把我们撂倒。

新建的村庄不见踪影，而很快天要落雪。

就算这样，微笑还是不曾从我们的诗人们的脸上褪去。

似乎面对悲伤，他们能感到没理性的，秘密的欢快。

当我们问他们有什么可笑，他们默不作声耸耸肩。

当我们要求他们在黑暗的日子让我们振作，他们默不作声耸耸肩。

他们看守住他们发出微笑的理由，只为了他们自己欢乐。

一天一天，面对他们稀薄的言辞，我们的信任愈来愈少。

在这贫瘠的年代，我们的诗人们的微笑当真神秘。

他们脑子烧坏了吗？他们在嘲笑我们共同的悲苦？

有时候，他们的微笑割伤我们，比敌人的武器更残忍。

可是，如果他们以为他们能骗过我们，那么他们错了。

只有当我们将我们的诗人们的秘密全部榨干，我们才能杀了他们。

只有那些最大号的大白话，只有跟我们一样脸色严峻，我们才让他们活。

What Are Our Poets Smiling at?

What are our poets smiling at?

There’s nothing funny in our tribe.

Many lie murdered in gullies.

Our women and children are hungry and barefoot.

Unknown illnesses are mowing us down.

No new villages built and soon it will snow.

Despite all this, the smiles don’t fade from our poets’ faces.

As if facing the sorrow brings them irrational, secret joy.

When we ask them what’s funny, they silently shrug,

And do the same when we demand they cheer us up in these dark times.

They guard the reason for their smiling just for their own enjoyment.

We trust them less and less, believe their sparse words less and less.

The smiles of our poets are truly mysterious in these poor times.

Did their minds burn out? Do they mock our common misery?

Their smiling sometimes cuts more cruelly than the weapons of our enemies.

But they are wrong if they think they will deceive us.

We will kill our poets only when we squeeze their secret out of them.

We will leave alive only the biggest blatherers, somber-faced and resembling us.

回形针

你放下手中的纸觉得困惑。

你这时才注意到一枚回形针铁锈色的压痕。

一条向内的道路盘旋着的路牌。

如同一根看不见的线她将世界的残屑聚拢。

她温暖过你，用她卷裹自己的方式。像一个胎儿。

像一只蜗牛。像集体墓穴里的一具躯体。

她的本意不是要为这世界增添或从中取走什么。

不是个创造者，这小小的回形针。她只是接触发生的一个理由。

有人取走她。谁，为什么——你不知道。

也不知有多少张纸片丢失了。

用一根手指重温那个印痕你开始继续阅读。

在你打开一个空间中的一个空间中的一个空间之前。

这首诗没有完结。

Paper Clip

You put down the paper confused.

You only now notice the rusty imprint of a paper clip.

A spiral sign for the way inward.

She held together scraps of the world like an invisible thread.

She warmed you, so enveloped in herself. Like a fetus.

Like a snail. Like a body in a mass grave.

Her intention is not to add or take away from the world.

Not a creator, the little paper clip. She only causes contact.

Someone removed her. Who, why—you don’t know.

Nor how many sheets were lost.

With a finger you go over the trace and start to read again.

Before you open a space within a space within a space.

This poem has no end.

中文翻译：梁丽真

Translated from Slovenian to English by Brian Henry

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