Fan Jinghua: Romeo

　　　　　　　Romeo

　　　Tears have to be held back, the parting is kept unnoticed;
　　　Words are not to be uttered, the longing is hidden and disguised,
　　　Beyond the two hearts that know, no one will ever know.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　—— Bo Ju-yi the Sanguine

You’ve finally lain down,
Down with your sword
By the stone pillow where her hair grows like moss,
After so many years of bell tolls
The salty Medi-terra-nean wind has not eroded the thick walls
Of the chapel where Friar’s self-reproaching eyes
Still grow green in the cuckoo’s mocks.
His lasting fast has not yet mummified him into a pupa,
Or at least such is the rumor during the vespers.

On every eve of Vesuvian eruption
People identify an unidentified flying object lingering
Is that you Romeo on the arch of a meteor?
(Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?)

Still dazzling and enchanting are the ladder-like waves
But no more is there moonlight in court-yard.
You’ve overdrawn too many dawns for those balcony dates,
You waded across the cool water of life and death
Straddled the starlit parapet
Bade her good-night for the one-night stand during which you stood
Till the tanks of clouds squeezed out the morning sun’s blood.
A small slip of the hooves, a stumble beside the river of reflected stars
Would seduce my vision for a collaboration and you would never come back.

But how can a man reproach another man for his love for gallantry?
What do men do to feel real and alive, then?
The only thing is
You have not learned, you have never learned
A woman or a goddess
Is but a touch-me-not in a mirror, a forget-me-not upon water
Neither a hand nor a foot
Not any part belonging to a man.
When she persists in love, she betrays you
But you are still Romeo, Romeo

(How can a man begrudge another man’s love for loving?
But to whom could I tell about
Our ancient ways of merry-making?)
What season is it there?
Are you fishing in a frozen lake or sword-fighting with a drunken moon?
Mercutio’s gone, long into hermitage, vocal cord cut.
For many years, I have been tracing him but in vain
He must have become a real shabby grave man
And the tavern where we’d roistered and fought is now a cultural site
Well-preserved but desolate
The ancient streets are stained with modern hostels
The beach crowded with swarthy women, bony and flowery
And bizarre creatures sucking marijuana, riding heavy metals
They’ve crushed the scenery of a lone roc and the setting sun

Last night, outside the city gate
A begging monk committed hara-kiri with his split bamboo flute
The cattail hassock sponged in every drop of his blood
The site of the rite was clean and dry and this morning the gate opened wide
Like a laughing mouth, laughing at you and me and at Mercutio
Romeo
After you’ve gone
This is no country for the young,
The old, rocking in the armchairs, enjoy respectful care
Their white hair blooming
Like the wild flowers by the younger tombs

　　Note: Chinese original written in early 1990s


　　　　　　　罗密欧

　　（为了多年前一场轰轰烈烈的苦恋）

　　　不得哭，潜别离；不得语，暗相思，两心之外无人知。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　——白乐天

你终于抱剑倒下了 和衣倒在她长发如苔的石枕旁
不如归去的凄鸣应和着晚祷的钟声
小教堂藏经的密室里神父那呆滞的眼睛仍发着绿光
多少世纪了
地中之海的咸涩没能风蚀那石屋的厚墙
外面的人传说他早已闭关成蛹了

每当维苏威火山爆发前夜
总有人目击维洛那上空有来历不明的物体盘旋
是你吗 罗密欧 驾着流星的弧线
(难道你就这样离开我 不给我些许满足?)

地中之海　波光依然滟潋 柔媚一如当年
多少次你披着黑夜的斗篷 潜入那明枪暗箭的后院
(那种寻欢如今对谁去说)
为了一夜楼台之欢
你骑着西厢外冷硬似铁的墙头 满肩落月的清瘦
我为你的身体担忧
你认定终身的遗憾是不能化着她的手套
抚摸那水密桃般的娇羞

夜夜你总在东方既白时才匆匆离去
终于应验了我预感的悲剧
一不小心 连人带马从一个斜坡跌入另一个维度

多少世纪后的今天
我仍要责备你 不该为了恋爱而迷恋上了爱情
女人 只不过是写在水上的名字
她不是手 不是脚 不是手臂 也不是脸
（镜花水月的事）
当她执着于爱情时就背叛了你
可你还是……罗密欧

罗密欧
你在那里是混迹于沙龙还是独钓寒江
是否还在月光下与影子比剑对饮
(据说那里的人只是一个平面 再非立体)
墨丘西欧归隐了 我已多年寻他不见
传闻他在深林的草舍 自残了声带 夜夜醉里扶剑

当年我们聚饮斗剑的馆肆已是无人问津的文化遗址
锈迹斑斑的古街映衬着座座新建的青年公寓
再也没人谈侠论剑 或者为荣誉冲冠
沙滩上总有黝黑的女郎赤条条地恣纵着日光
一群群吸食大麻的异装族骑着重金属 碾轧着
孤鸿与落日齐飞的风景

黑暗来临　一个老乞丐犹如缠着破布的拐杖
倚着断垣吹箫　于是彻夜里风雨满城
当清晨从死亡中醒来　他已在城门外剖腹
半截身下的蒲团像海绵一样吸干了他的血流
罗密欧　这已非年轻人的国度
充满尊敬的安乐椅上苍苍老者闭目养神
白头如你墓园前的荻花一样摇晃
告诫年轻人不要发誓 不得许愿

Fan Jinghua: The Ferry

　　The Ferry

As the night grows old, the names that lights leave behind,
one by one, turn gray and grow hairy and muffled.
Yesterday has been dragging along too far to listen for
the faint incantation from the reeds around the ferry.
River runs calm, but it shows its life by lapping the banks
where veiled roots are washed white.
He who has been conjuring the dream demon
is now too excited to be possessed.
Contrast eases the east.
The boatman pillowing on the windowsill of the hut
shouts to the first dawning light: do you need to cross the water?
The fog melts his voice away, and the figure in the midstream
raises one hand to the forehead. He does not know
whether it is summoning birds or beckoning his boat.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　August 13-14, 2007

　　　　渡

当夜晚变得苍老，灯盏留下的名字
一个接一个地变灰、长毛、闷声。
昨夜从泥泞中拖着脚步而来，
到了渡口，却无心倾听芦苇中低微的咒语。
河水静静地流，然而它总要轻拍两岸，
将黑纱缠绕的芦苇根洗白，以显示自己的生命。
此刻，那个彻夜召唤梦魔的人
兴奋得难以被它附身。
对比度的低浅令东方变得平和。
船夫枕着小草屋的窗台，对着黎明中的第一道晨光
呼喊：你是不是需要渡水？
雾气将他的嗓音融化，而河流中央的那个影子
一手举过额头。他不知道
那是在招引鸟儿歇脚还是在呼渡。
　　　　　　　　　　2007年8月14日

Fan Jinghua: Double-Seven Eve

　　　　　　Double-Seven Eve

Depending on who you are, it can be an involuntary moat
the Queen of Heaven cuts with her hair clasp
for fear that the poor oxherd and his sons might enter her queendom,
a river, due to agitated hand, with gorges, rapids and shoals,
a pair of paired swords that share one sheath.
An old wife’s tale about a paradise bisected into longing and pursuit
and two forgotten half-breeds from blue blood and red.
You look up and you will see
your heavenscape has a majestic long scar, foamy and revolute.
There are of course steady sparkles
for you to fixate, rivet or anchor,
enough for every eye, no matter how many eyes you imagine you have.
But you must try hard to defocus,
and then you may float and forget yourself and where you are.

Simply to extend your arm and level your finger over the billows,
you will make a sky bridge for the doomed family,
while the kids in the baskets on the father’s shoulder pole
scale the weight of love and blood.
You lie on a reed mat or on a narrow bench, waiting patiently
for the gossips of toads, but instead
you hear your mother nagging about the dewfall and illness.
Tonight, she has finished telling the story
which she had long been told a few times, and after a few more times
her good humor may run out: “Go back to your bed.”
You are seven and excited, your brother half asleep,
and she is tired like her exhausted mother, your dead dear grandma.
Nothing comes from the sky, except for stray fireflies.

Tonight you again level your index finger at your eyes
and push it back and forth like a telescopic slide of a trombone;
in the poisoned city air, all that glisters
has a yellowish balloon-like halo, and nothing can be seen in the sky
while screams of cars randomly intersect the field of hearing.
No matter how grand the scale is,
you will never figure out with your knuckles
the ratios between your loved ones and the Milky Way and you.
In terms of the power to point at
and measure the distance and depth of your vision,
the girth of the finger has to be aesthetically out of scale with its length.
When you look at the scar in the heaven and look hard,
you will see the undercurrent of blood and understand
the radius of the hemi-heaven is irrelational to that of your territory.

Note: The seventh day of the seventh month in lunar calendar (August 19, 2007) is Chinese Lover’s Day, as the folklore says that Vega the Weaving Maiden Fairy (the youngest of the seven daughters of the Queen of Heaven) and Altair the mortal oxherd would meet for their once-in-a-year date on the bridge of magpies over the Milky Way.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　August 16-17, 2007

　　　　　七夕

看你是谁，你可以将它视为一道无奈的壕沟
王母娘娘拔下发簪在身后当空一划
那可怜的牛郎父子就永无进入女人天国的可能
这条大河，因为她下手时的激动与游移，带着峡谷、急流和浅滩
一对鸳鸯剑并排躺在一口剑鞘内
这不过是老妇之谭，说的是天堂被思念和追求一分为二
还有两个被神遗弃的人神杂交的后代
你抬头就能看见
天堂之景有一条宏伟的伤疤，刀口后翻、吐着泡沫
当然，还有点点恒定的闪光
无论你想象自己能长出多少只眼睛
你都有所观注、铆钉、锚泊
但是你必须努力散失焦点
然后你便能漂浮，忘了自己是谁、身在何处

只需要伸出手臂、将手指横放在波涛上
你就能给那苦命的人家制造一座天桥
而那父亲扁担两端的孩子在箩筐里
称着爱与血的重量
你可以躺在一方草席或者一条窄窄的长板凳上
耐心地等着听癞蛤蟆的碎嘴
然而你听到的是你妈妈唠叨着露水与生病的联系
今夜，她已经讲完了
她很久以前被讲了几次的传说，她又讲了几次
原本的好心情开始耗尽：都给我回床上睡去。
你七岁，时时兴奋，你弟弟已双眼沉重，
她很疲倦，犹如她那灯干油尽的母亲，你亲爱的死去了的外婆。
天上除了几只离群的萤火虫
没传来任何音信。

今夜你又将你的食指抬到眼睛的高度
前后平拉，好像长号上调音的伸缩滑管
然而在这空气污秽的城市，一切闪光的
都自带一只气球般的昏黄晕光，遮住了天空中可能的景观
远远近近，汽车的惨叫任意割裂着你的听觉
无论那比例尺多么宏大
你都无法以指节
计算出你心爱的人与银河以及你之间的距离之比
按照你手指的指向能力
它的厚度与长度必须比例失调得合乎审美要求
才能丈量你视野的宽广
而当你久久凝视着天堂的伤疤
你会看到血液的潜流，明白
那半个天堂的幅员与你领域的深浅并无血缘关系

注：农历七月七日是中国的情人节（2007年8月19日）。民间传说，织女星（王母娘娘七个女儿中最小的一个）和牵牛星（凡间的放牛郎）将在喜鹊以翅膀搭建的桥上，完成一年一度的跨越银河的约会。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2007年8月19日七夕

Fan Jinghua: The Queen of Heaven

　　　The Queen of Heaven

With a sword-like flash of her silvery hairclasp,
the Queen of Heaven cleaves an involuntary moat through the sky,
and half of her land is offered to compensate for the refractory affair:
a contraceptive failure is always a weight to bargain against the heavenly scale.
On her palm is left a numb dent, dark with blood.

This is a queendom: a single mother with seven grown-up daughters,
all immortals. Any daughter’s any impulsive love or one-night stand
is settled with cession of the mother’s land,
plus blasphemy that all the fowls carry on their wings.

You could have kept some pets, like a rabbit
or even amphibians from the order of anura, like a frog or a toad.
As for a man or a child, you may keep that fantasy,
but you should never attempt to keep him in your boudoir.
Remember your blood is blue, and your menses is mother-of-pearl.

Those constellational heroes are born red-blooded, glowing with lust;
they are on guard because they keep eyes on chances,
the eggs of their wisdom is piled on the top of a slope:
when the eggs are bloated hard, the pile will collapse quick,
but being deflated and saggy is their inbuilt fear.

No need to bind our feet or cinch our waist.
We stand knee-deep in clouds, squeezing thighs and arms
like in the mud, and don’t give a fuck about a ferry or a U-boat.
We will fly in the liquid of night from one night to another
like jellyfish, brainless, with nervous systems for light and odor.

What we can improve is our instinct to avoid danger,
and our embrace for life is for the prey.
Being slow, we need lethal toxins to sustain our own lives.
If they solidify into pearls, then you may string them together
to make a necklace or even a G-string.

The mirror walls along the boundary double our motherland,
and I will never allow them usurped for opening boutiques.
Oh, look, the rainbow is letting down a drawbridge
for an annual carnival. Girls, let’s get ready for a parade,
and we’ll catwalk to the moat for some water play.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　August 18, 2007

Note: The seventh day of the seventh month in lunar calendar (August
19, 2007) is Chinese Lover’s Day, as the folklore says that Vega
the Weaving Maiden Fairy (the youngest daughter of Her Majesty
the Queen of Heaven) and Altair the mortal oxherd would meet
for their once-in-a-year date on the bridge of magpies over the Milky
Way. The folklore says that The Queen of Heaven uses her hair clasp
to cleave a Silvery River (The Milky Way) to prevent the Oxherd from
catching up with them, and thus the two were forever separated.


　　　　　　王母如是说

银簪子当空一划，王母娘娘用一道无奈的护城河
将半壁天国留给了枯情：避孕失败也成了倾斜天秤的砝码？
可她的手心却又落下一个冰冷的凹坑，暗暗的，稍有淤血。

这是女皇的国度：一个寡妇带着七个熟女，
女儿的每次冲动都令她割让天宇，赔给一场露水情缘；
而且，所有的鸟都要传播一个永恒的骂名。

你们也可以养宠物，例如兔子，甚至是无尾类的青蛙蟾蜍，
但是男人或者孩子，可以幻想，切不可妄图密藏于闺阁；
因为你们流着蓝色的血，月月分泌珠母贝的荧光。

那些坚定成星座的英雄，都是贱民身世，泛着欲望的光；
守，便是他们永远的望，而他们的智慧之卵垒在一个滑坡的顶端：
涨满的硬，令他们难以持久，而干瘪的软是他们根深蒂固的内荏。

我们不必缠足束腰。双脚插在云中，夹紧双腿和双臂，扭动与搓揉，
无需渡船或潜艇，我们也能飞翔在液体中，游过一夜又一夜……
我们是水母，没有大脑，只有神经系统构成光与味的本能。

能强化的只有基因中撤退的速度，而拥抱激情就是拥抱猎物。
缓慢的生命需要有致命的毒素才能维系。
如果它们凝结成珠，那么将它们串成一条项链，或者丁字裤。

镜子的围墙令我们的幅员辽阔，而我不会破墙开店。
哦，看啊，彩虹的吊桥放下了，一年一度的狂欢节啊，
女儿们，我们这就排队，走猫步，去护城河戏水。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2007年8月18日（七夕前夕）

注：农历七月初七（2007年8月19日）是中国的情人节。民间传说，织女星（王母娘娘最小的女儿）和牵牛星（凡间的放牛郎）每年都会在这一日在喜鹊搭成的桥上，跨越银河见面一次。据说，王母娘娘为了阻止牛郎追上她们，用发簪在身后划了一下，变成了银河，于是牛郎和织女就只能隔河相望。

Fan Jinghua: Pigeons on a Town Square

　　　　　Pigeons on a Town Square

The shower has stopped. In the town square,
pigeons, out from eaves, pecking the crumbs and litters, like
married confidantes all back to the mothers’ to share bedroom gags.
Even peasants, roving under the trees, also regard these birds.
Their baskets emptied; otherwise, they would not give a hoot,
but now they think they should, so as to feel the civilized life.
They and tourists are mutual objects for gaze,
while the latter, coming to pilgrimage through pictorials,
have long before thought of themselves in this spectacle.

Even their blackness is a special black, spotted plumage
becoming white, or at least on the way to some sort of patterns.
So alive! They multiply without making physical love.
If they do, they go spiritual foremost, never animal,
never the one-on-and-behind-another posture.
Oh, how romantic! A love in flight!
You have to agree that men can never come so pure.
The man who is cynical about pigeons is dirty-minded,
for his shrewdness hurts people, especially women, especially me.

I’ve merely displayed a little happiness and only occasionally
I coo on bed, and these do not mean I am diffident.
I like wearing noire, as it makes me look elegant and noble,
and being a femme, what is wrong with a little added erotique?
So, you, nerd, do not try to put on an air of a dissident.
You are only a man, have an index finger and like to be sucked.
Admit it like a real man, and make me lovely and sexily pure.
Oh, by the way, you are neither a bird nor an ornithologist,
how dare you claim the knowledge between a feral pigeon and a dove?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　August 25, 2007

　　　　广场的鸽子

阵雨停了。鸽子从檐口飞出，
它们在市镇广场上啄食着碎屑，三三两两，
像闺中密友都回到了娘家，窃语着卧房趣事。
农民也在树下一边溜达一边观看这些鸟儿，
箩筐与心思空了，否则他们会觉得不值一瞧，
但是现在，他们想，应该趁着凉爽看看，
也算感觉一下城市的文明生活。
游客，因为画报而来朝圣，与农民互相观看；
他们早已看过这些鸟，并想象自己融入这景观。

它们的黑色是别致的黑，污斑的羽翼
正在变白，或者起码有某种仍未看得出来的图案。
如此生机勃勃！简直都是无性繁殖。
假如有性，它们也都要首先通过精神，从来都不动物，
更不可能采用一上一下一前一后的体位。
啊，相携而飞！这是多么浪漫的爱情！
你得承认男人永远不能来得这么纯洁。
哪个男人要是讥讽鸽子，那只能证明他心理龌龊，
那点小聪明只会伤害他人，尤其伤害女人、伤害着我。

我不过显得有点幸福而已，也会偶尔在卧室
像鸽子一样地低声咕咕，这并非证明我没有信心。
我总穿着黑色，因为这令我看来高雅脱俗，
作为一个女士，稍稍装扮一点性感又何不妥？
所以，你这伪君子，别装出一幅与众不同的神气，
你有一只食指，那么就像每个人一样吧，
说你喜欢看、喜欢指指戳戳、喜欢征服，也喜欢有人舔嗍；
那么你要像每个人那样令我可爱、令我性感地纯洁。
顺便再问一句：你既不是鸟也不是类学家，
除了鸽子的颜色， 你凭什么敢自称能够区分家鸽和野鸽？
　　　　　　　　　　　2007年8月25日

Fan Jinghua: A Nightmare

　　A Nightmare

I was locating my home
which I remembered was numbered 1305,
and I understood what it might stand for:
either it was the fifth door of a bungalow in a terrace,
or a unit on the thirteen floor in an apartment building.
It was a cloudy afternoon, early or late summer,
in my alma mater middle school,
so I guessed that I must be a teacher and a former student.
Walking on a cement road between rows of homes,
whose residents should have been all familiar faces,
former teachers and schoolmates and present colleagues,
I saw an old classmate whose parents had been our teachers
and the classmate she married to was not my friend,
perhaps we had harbored a kind of puppy love when in the classroom.
I saw her doing housework behind the window,
maybe by the kitchen basin,
and her face flickered twice and smiled once at my waving hand;
behind beans and towel gourds, it looked like
a picture in a flower photo-frame;
but when I walked to the door and asked for her,
her parents came to tell that it was not a right time for her to talk.
My throat was dry and difficult like drought land,
and I asked for her husband,
knowing that they might know where my home was;
but I was told her husband was no at home, although
I heard his whistle.
I backed away from their row, which I found was number 9,
so I walked on, wishing the rows were numbered in a lineal logic.
Four rows further to the north, I did find Row 13,
the last row of bungalows before a piece of wasteland,
but there were only even numbers in chalk between those doors.
This did not much too surprised me, as my premonition
had before the search warned me of the weirdness of my situation.
To the other end of the bungalow district, however,
there was one towering apartment building.
so with the vague faith that that might be where I really lived,
I was there.
Upon entering the empty porch, I pressed the button for Up,
and found the lift did not open but it faced me with a rectangle hole
about a width of one meter less and a height of one meter plus.
Big enough for me to enter.
I came out at the right floor, standing straight
and finding myself among a chaotic scattering of books and papers,
which was amazingly not my home in my memory
but all the litter was definitely mine.
I went to the window and looked out
and was horrified to find that the room was solitarily
floating in the mid-air like a hot balloon
away from the building it should have been soldered into;
I saw the bungalows down there as if half-drowned.
Then, I realized that my room was on the missing 13th floor
of superstitious erasure, a collective unmentionable,
and then I woke up to write it out,
and I had to close my eyes to recall the detailed vividness.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　August 26, 2007 p.m.

Ps:
This is a genuine dream I had sometime in the morning today (August 26, 2007), which I’ve tried hard to transcribe as faithfully as I can.


　　　一个梦魇

我只记得我家的门牌是1305，
我知道这意味着十三排五号或者十三楼五单元，
但我却忘了到底是哪排房子或哪栋楼。
那是一个初夏或者夏末的午后，多云转阴，
在中学母校，因此我应该是毕业后重返母校的教师。
我走在左右都是住家的水泥路上，
那些住户应该都是一些熟悉的面孔，
从前的老师或同学校友、现在的同事，
我看到一个老同学，她的父母曾是我们的老师，
而她所嫁的同学不是我的朋友，或许因为
我们同坐课堂时曾有过未曾明说的初恋。
我看到她的脸在窗后，或许在厨房的水池前，
她的脸闪了两次，还对着我的挥手微微一笑，
透过房前园子里的豆角和丝瓜，她的脸犹如花边相框中的照片。
当我走到门前，她父母告诉我此刻她不便说话。
我的嗓子干涩得难以出声，犹如一片燥裂的农田，
但是我还是要求见她的丈夫，
心想他们应该知道我的家在哪里；
而我被告知她丈夫不在，虽然我听到他在里屋吹着口哨。
退离那排房子时，我看到那排的标号是9，
于是我继续向前，希望数字按照逻辑顺序排列；
向北走了四排，果然看到第十三排，
一小片荒芜空地之前的最后一排住家，
然而那些门之间的墙上只有石灰刷出的偶数号码。
这竟然并没有令我吃惊，因为我寻找之前已有不祥的预感，
明白我的处境绝非如此简单，肯定有着难以言说的怪诞。
在平房区的另一边，有一栋很高的公寓，
我隐约地相信我住的地方应该就在那里。
进了空无一人的门厅，按了“向上”的电梯按钮，
电梯下来了，却没有打开，门上有一个焊枪切开的洞，
一个不到一米宽不止一米高的长方形，足够我低头进入。
我适时走出电梯，站直了身，就已经站在
一堆堆凌乱散落的书本纸张中间。
令我惊异的是，那肯定不是我记忆中的家，
但所有的物件肯定都属于我。
走到窗前，我恐慌地意识到
我的屋子正孤独的飘浮在半空中，犹如一只热气球，
抽离了原本的楼层，十二与十四楼之间；
我低头看到平房全都好像半淹在一片汪洋中。
这时候我突然醒悟，原来我的屋子属于那不见的十三楼，
被迷信从顺序中抹消，一件集体的不可提及之事。
我醒来，将这个梦写出，
而我不得不闭着眼睛才能将种种细节重现于眼前。
　　　　　　　　　　　　2007年8月26日晚

后记：
这是今天上午（2007年8月26日）的一个真实的梦，
我也尽量真实地记述下来。

Fan Jinghua: Fragments of a Love

　Fragments of a Love
　　一场爱情的碎片


　　　　* * * * *
The Tennessee Waltz almost over,
he held her in his arms a little closer
and words were held up tighter under the tongue.
It was merely a schmaltzy stereotype.
From their eyes I thought
without looking hard they could almost see each other,
but then it was him who shied away from himself in her eyes.
A better dancer immediately picked her up for a jitterbug,
and then I heard her hearty laughter, and saw him
gulping down a can of iced coke, in one breath.
Their next dance was a fox-trot,
and after the quick steps I found
they were better matched in the staggering.
The dance was duly over, but the rhythm
remained long after in my heart.

田纳西华尔兹到了尾声，
他将她稍稍拥近了一点，
而想说的话在嘴里拥得更紧。
这不过是个滥情的俗套。
我想他们从彼此的眼中
可以毫不费力地看见自己，
但他却躲开了另一双眼里的自己。
一位舞艺高超的人立即请她吉特巴，
然后我听到她放开的笑，而他一口气
灌下一听冰镇可乐。
他们的下一支舞是一个狐步，
我发现短促的快步之后
他们的蹒跚慢步配合得更好。
一支舞按时结束，而那节奏
在我心中久久未消。

　　　* * * * *

In that city where you were strangers,
you were even strange to each other.
Your adventures always led to dead ends
or your ways often circled around
or doubled back on themselves,
and eventually you grew easy and relaxed,
preparing to walk every step twice
and enjoyed every lane and backstreet
after you had given up the right route.
When you came to a stone screen wall that ended an alley
with a big Chinese character of karma,
the moon and sun were both in the sky.
He suddenly hugged you tight, your eyes shut,
his hand even groping into your elasticated waistband.
Two clusters of feather lovegrass waved on the tiled ridge,
and I looked at a star and moaned with joy.

在那座你们很陌生的城市，
你们甚至彼此陌生。
大部分冒险都将你们送入死胡同，
或者走来走去还在兜圈子
要么就是原路折回，
你们终于随遇而安，不再寻找正确的路线。
当你们打算每一步走重复一次，
你们开始尽情欣赏每一条偏僻的小街小巷。
一条小巷将你们引到终点，一面影壁上
有一个大大的缘字，
那时月亮和太阳都在天空。
他突然将你拥入怀中，你眼睛轻闭，
他的手甚至塞进了你松紧带的裙腰。
影壁的瓦墙上有两簇鲫鱼草在晚风中招摇，
我仰望着一颗星，快乐地呻吟。

　　　* * * * *

She stepped out of train,
and the platform suddenly floated and he looked wobbling,
but he stood at ease, feet shoulder width apart to steady himself.
Then, she bent to tuck in a jacket
into the bag and a mirror flashed like a split of smile;
the zipper was dry and squeaked for a little grease.
Then, I was dazed…
Oh, the silvery strip
against the black string above the low risers...
The unforgettable is the impossible to recount.
I still remember the way
his fingers adducted and abducted themselves behind his back.
That trip of a day and night must have been difficult,
for she had to tell him that she would cherish his love forever
before she could tell him goodbye.
Perhaps she was not sure what she could expect,
and obviously she is not, after many years.

她走出火车，
站台便突然摇晃，而他似乎也随着飘浮，
但很快便站稳，双脚分开与肩同宽。
然后，她弯腰将一件夹克
塞进旅行包，一面镜子如闪电般咧嘴而笑，
拉链的嗓音滞涩，尖声地要求润滑。
然后，哦，我愣住了……
她低腰裤上方系着一条黑色丝带
横躺于一条夺目的鱼肚白走廊……
难以忘记的都无法重述。
但是我清楚记得
他的手指在他背后如何不由自主地捏紧又松开。
那次旅途应该甚为艰难，千里迢迢，
她必须告诉他说自己将永远珍惜那段爱情，
然后才能和他分手告别。
也许她当时并不确定她将遇到怎样的反应，
而今，多年过后，她显然更加不能。

　　　* * * * *

Half way to the peak of the Yellow Mount
where on a stone terrace the Immortals basked with their feet bare,
a gnarled pine on the cliff
contorted its trunk as if to challenge the tourists coming near.
Their hands twined like a knot.
Then, I came by and we looked into each other’s eyes,
and suddenly I had a green urge to go overboard for a free fall.
I could feel his hand drawing out of hers, palms wet,
like a brook sprouting from the cold solid mass.
At that moment, I was full of love toward life like never before,
like extracting from your body after a passionate love.

黄山的半途，
在那个仙人晒靴的石头平台上，
一株老松树佝偻着身子，
犹如挑衅崖上的游客。
他俩互挽的手，犹如一个树瘤。
我走过他们身边，和他四目相对，
突然有一股冲动，想在那儿体验山野中的自由坠落。
我能感到他的手从她双手中抽出，手掌潮湿，
犹如一条山溪从巨大的冷硬中射出。
就在那个时刻，我对生命
充满从未有过的热爱，犹如一场激情过后，
我从你的身体中退缩。

　　　* * * * *

Even in this age of oblivion as a vogue,
you can still believe you are impossibly unforgettable.
If you have faith, you may bump into someone you think
you’ve long forgotten or never met.
Dear, you have always been a star;
and you have a constant fan who hums the oldie
you sang twice with such a naive passion,
once when you met and once when you were to break up;
they were many years ago, before you are such a star.

即便在这个风行遗忘的时代，
你仍要相信你绝无可能被人忘记。
若你有这样的信念，你便会在任何地点
不期而遇你以为你早已忘却或者从未相识的人。
你，亲爱的，一直就是一颗星；
有一双向日的眼睛不渝地追索你的方向，
哼着一首老歌，你曾带着幼稚的激情唱过两次，
一次你们相识，一次你们将要分手；
那是很多年前，你还不是如今的明星。

　　　* * * * *

Walking through the shopping streets,
turning at the right turn, turning in at the right turn,
you bring yourself along with you;
in your easy haste, you see nobody in the world.
You are not in his sight and he is not in your mind.
You are still the one I knew,
but you know you are not the one I knew.
I see you, and there is a street of desolate heat between us.
My heart jerks with a chilly flash of a windowpane.

你穿过商业区的街道，
在该拐弯的地方拐弯，在该拐进去的地方拐进，
你只带着自己，以匆忙挟持着从容，
似乎这个世界空无一人。
你不在他的眼里，他也不在你的心里。
你仍然是我曾经熟识的那个女人，
而你知道你不是我曾经熟识的那个女人。
我看着你，而我们只隔着一条冒着热气的荒寂的街。
一扇窗户的闪光令我的心冷冷地抽搐了一下。

　　　* * * * *

So many half-naked beauties,
more accessories than main pieces.
In the porches, along the corridors,
by the potted plants and on the escalators,
their center of gravity rests on one leg only,
and alternates upon the passers-by.
Their sparkles bring out a fleshy scent like invisible dust,
and some of them must be waterproof.
You are alone, and free.
It is the hottest month of the year,
and I am elated like a happy cockroach.

如此多裸背露胸的女人，
附件多于主体。
门廊下，盆栽旁，扶梯上，
她们的重心只放在一条腿上，
并且依据路过的人而随时调整。
她们的汗珠带出肉香犹如看不见的尘灰，
有些人肯定可以防水。
你独自一人，自由地逛。
在这一年中最热的月份，
我兴致昂然，犹如一只快活的蟑螂。