诗人

兹比格涅夫•赫伯特（波兰），zorow_2000转译自英译版


他不是天使
他是诗人


他没有翅膀
只有右手
长着羽毛，用它


来拍打空气
划过三道弧他浮上了空
接着迅速掉落


快要落地时
他用双腿蹬着身子
于是又盘旋了一会儿
长羽毛的右手在空中挥打


噢，要是他能克服粘土的引力该多好
他就能住在群星织成的巢里
他就能跳着从一束阳光到另一束
要是那样该多好


但是那些群星啊
一想到要成为他落脚的土地
就在死亡的惊恐中一颗颗掉落


诗人用他长羽毛的手
遮住了双眼
不再幻想飞翔
而是想象跌落，跌落
就像一道闪电照出了无限的轮廓




The Poet by Zbigniew Herbert, 10/25/2002
(Translated by Roman Turovsky and Sean Monagle)

He's no angel
he is a poet


he has no wings
just has a feathered
right hand


he beats the air with it
levitates by three spans
and falls promptly


when he is almost alighted
pushes away with his legs
hovers for an instant
waves the feathered hand


oh if he only could overcome the pull of the clay
he could live in the nest of the stars
he could jump from ray to ray
if he only could -


but the stars
at the mere thought
of being his earth
fall off in mortal fright


the poet covers his eyes
with his feathered hand
dreams no more of flight
dreams of fall
that like a lightning draws
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