暮色

李妮

暮色

他整日奔波在堂兄的磨坊，

黄昏时分，回到家中，他总是坐在窗前，

看每一天如约而至的，暮色。

像这样坐下来、做会儿梦的时刻，真应该多一些。

可正如堂兄所说：

生存—要生存，所以不能一直坐着。

窗外，虽不见广阔天地，但这一方风景

是其缩影。四季更迭，

各自占据一天中的几个时辰。

先是绿，转而金黄，随后变白—

那抽象中生出强烈的愉悦，

宛如桌上的无花果。

傍晚，太阳落山，一团朦胧的红色火焰，在两株白杨之间渐渐下沉。

夏季的日落迟了—有时候，很难一直醒着。

然后，一切开始退隐。

世界，起初还能看见点什么，尔后只听得见，

蟋蟀和蝉声。

哦，时不时还能闻到，柠檬树和橘树的芳香。

直至睡眠，将之隔绝。

事实证明，放弃这些并非难事，

不过几个钟头而已。

我张开手指—

任一切离去。

视觉的世界，言语，

夜晚叶片的簌簌声，

高草丛与烧木头的味道，

我放一切离去，然后，点一支烛。

TWILIGHT

All day he works at his cousin’s mill,

so when he gets home at night, he always sits at this one window,

sees one time of day, twilight.

There should be more time like this, to sit and

dream.

It’s as his cousin says:

Living—living takes you away from sitting.

In the window, not the world but a squared-off

landscape

representing the world. The seasons change,

each visible only a few hours a day.

Green things followed by golden things followed by whiteness—

abstractions from which come intense pleasures,

like the figs on the table.

At dusk, the sun goes down in a haze of red fire between two poplars.

It goes down late in summer—sometimes it’s hard to stay awake.

Then everything falls away.

The world for a little longer is something to see, then only something to hear,

crickets, cicadas.

Or to smell sometimes, aroma of lemon trees, of orange trees.

Then sleep takes this away also.

But it’s easy to give things up like this,

experimentally,

for a matter of hours.

I open my fingers—

I let everything go.

Visual world, language,

rustling of leaves in the night,

smell of high grass, of woodsmoke.

I let it go, then I light the candle.

露易丝•格丽克的《村居生活》诗集曾经陪伴我度过一些特殊的时候，所以尤其珍视，想要认真地读译一遍。