作品原文

周梦蝶 《囚》

那时将有一片杜鹃燃起自你眸中
那时宿草已五十度无聊地青而复枯
枯而复青。那时我将寻访你
断翅而怯生的一羽蝴蝶
在红白掩映的泪香里
以熟悉的触抚将隔世诉说……

多想化身为地下你枕着的那片黑！
当雷轰电掣，夜寒逼人
在无天可呼的远方
影单魂孤的你，我总萦念
谁是肝胆？除了秋草
又谁识你心头沉沉欲碧的死血？

早知相遇的另一必然是相离
在月已晕而风未起时
便应勒令江流回首向西
便应将呕在紫帕上的
那些愚痴付火。自灰烬走出
看身外身内，烟飞烟灭。

已离弦的毒怨射去不射回
几时才得逍遥如九天的鸿鹄？
总在梦里梦见天坠
梦见千指与千目网罟般落下来
而泥泞在左，坎坷在右
我，正朝著一口嘶喊的黑井走去……

一切无可奈何中最无可奈何的！
像一道冷辉，常欲越狱
自折剑后呜咽的空匣；
当奋飞在鹏背上死
忧喜便以瞬息万变的猫眼，在南极之南
为我打开一面窗子。

曾经漂洗过岁月无数的夜空的脸
我的脸。蓝泪垂垂照着
回答在你风圆的海心激响着
梅雪都回到冬天去了
千山外，一轮斜月孤明
谁是相识而犹未诞生的那再来的人呢？

作品译文

Prisoner
Zhou Mengdie

There’ll be a patch of azaleas
blazing up from your eyes:
the fiftieth time the perennial grasses
make the change they can’t help making:
green to brown and back to green again.
And I’ll come looking for you
—as a broken-winged and timid butterfly—
and through a scent of tears, now red now white,
with a touch so familiar
I’ll speak to you of a former incarnation…

If only I could be transformed
into that underground darkness
you’re resting on! While thunder roars,
lightning tears, night cold daunts…
even at this distance, no heaven left to cry to,
my thought still turns on you,
solitary shadow, soul alone.
For whom can the bosom open?
Who, except the autumn weeds, knows
how heavy the blood in your heart,
how ready to be shed?

If I had known that parting
is the other side of meeting—
while the moon was haloed and before the wind
arose, I could have commanded the Long River
to go back, to the west, the source;
or given my infatuations,
spit out on a bloody handkerchief,
to the fire to burn. And stepped out of the ashes
and seen, beyond the body and within,
smoke flying, smoke vanishing.

The poisoned arrow of my plaint
has left the bowstring, shot and gone,
never to be shot back.
When will I ever roam at ease
like the biggest swans in the highest heaven?
In dreams I always see heaven falling,
see a thousand fingers, a thousand eyes,
dropping like a net
while I—mud to the left, rocks to the right—
walk straight at the screaming mouth
of a black pit…

Of all impasses the most impassable!
Like a ray of cold radiance
yearning to escape from the sobbing scabbard
left behind when the sword broke.
When I roused myself and soared, riding the roc,
and died—south of the South Pole, pleasure and pain,
those kaleidoscopic cat’s eyes,
opened a window for me.

A face, bleached
in the numberless night skies of the years—
my face. Blue tears gradually light up.
On the sea of your memory
the wind whirls, raising up answers.
The snow and the plum blossoms
have all gone back to winter.
Beyond the thousand mountains
a setting moon shines in solitude.
Who is it—coming again,
the familiar one, the one yet unborn?