本帖最后由 珠峰 于 2016-7-5 18:27 编辑
哦, 诗人
试图写下第一个字的
那一刻就失去了意义
丢失在属于你自己的
盒子里
言语本无词哪怕你开口唱
看默默路人
每天同一个时间穿行在
同一个街口，步履织网的
世界，注意看不过是
隔离的词句
毫无意义的
语词游戏你乐此不疲
诗从字里行间出逃
巧合这貌似聪明的用词却把
问题扔进了垃圾箱，里面装着
刚才还被叫做食物和水果的东西
试图像之前在阳光下一样
继续生长
诗人看起来像诗的亲戚
实际不过是无字之歌的窃贼
那些满嘴文艺腔谩骂的批评家
是他们敌人般的真正的朋友
彼此公平分担着爱与恨的老账
2016.7.1 译
O Poets
it doesn't mean anything
the moment you try to put
the first word down
it loses its meaning to
a box you belong
the word is wordless even when
you sing, look at those
wordless travelers crossing over
same corner same time each day
the web they are weaving with steps
called world, a divided word if you've noticed
meaningless
game of words you work on and on
poems jump out of it and gone
coincidence sounds a wise one throws
queries in a bin which contains stuff called
food and fruits a while ago when
they were still trying to grow
as they were under the sun
poets look like relatives of poems
but thieves of the wordless pieces
those critics stuffed their mouths with
poetic swears are their truly
enemyful friends with whom they
split bills of love and hack fairly
Dec 4, 2015 Sydney |
发表于 2016-7-2 15:07
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