遠去的救護車

一陣喧亮的鳴響過後
救護車在前面遠去
密集的城市曾讓出一道裂縫
暫且為它靜默
如今不過是前方
一點逐漸細小的白色
還有隱約一橫紅線
是昔才符號鮮明的鳴響
不容猶疑的決心甚至
擁有全城最堅定的方向
持守它真實而凜然的使命
還會有誰呢沒有躑躅囁嚅
就只有它執意左旋右轉
眾目下越過界線
現在城市又像神蹟後的紅海
重新合攏，復淹沒眾多事物
真的遠去了，向著遙遠的世界
車廂內是另一神秘國度
縈繞童年不可知的想像
彷彿載著眾生的希望
連結車內持續心跳
那淌血或昏死的誰
勉力吞吐一絲微弱的呼吸

AMBULANCE

The long siren wailing,
the packed traffic
cleft in quick silence,
the ambulance already far ahead,
a white, shrinking spot beneath a ruby blur,
its cry the signature
of one will, unsparing truth
commanding a whole city.
Everything postpones, time stammering
as the ambulance insists
left, right, straight,
crossing the lines
kept by thousands.
Then, like the Red Sea, cars
flood the lane shut,
the ambulance vanishing toward a distant realm
bearing its cargo of mystery
all the way from childhood.
Hope maintains
its handshake with the steady heart—
hemorrhage or coma,
each breath in breathed out.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

夜渡

航起了
航向霓虹斑爛的彼岸
聽見馬達在暗處
沉沉響著悶雷
也聽見輕柔的水聲搖蕩
沉思的人倚在欄杆
視線遊移像是走在地下道
目光偶然略過壁上不解的文字
奔馳中的黑夜海，有點駭人

海浪舞著欲睡的小輪
它要帶我們渡過這代表勝利的海港
今夜如斯寧靜，是否會記起
這裏曾綻放的煙花燦爛？
兩岸燈火在臉上照來了十色幻夢

霓虹在海上像舊書頁上一方朱印
找不到兒時愛看的星子
忘不掉煙花與辱恨的記憶
今夜在自遠而近的彼岸
發現日子在水手眼裏閃著微茫的希望

夜來以後
陌生的路客相遇了並且一同
顛危危向著前方
極目是燃燒的海岸泛著閃動的色光
好像小火焰輕輕搖擺晃動
曲折、迷幻如童年追逐的星子
倦極就稍稍歇息吧在低層的破落裏安躺
小輪船緩緩駛進入夢的彼岸

NIGHT FERRY

The ferry sets off
toward neon splashed across the harbour.
Below, the engines’
muted thunder.
By the rail, soft wash
whispering beside the hull.
Some travelers lean out, gazing
as at strange figures in a cave.
Swells on the dark sea frighten.

The small sleepy ferry lifts and falls,
bearing us over this harbour named for victory.
So quiet, the night. Will the blazing
fireworks return?
Glimmer from both shores
casts its dream-colored net across our faces.

Those neons dapple on the sea
like red stamps in ancient books,
like the lost star I loved there,
old whiffs of fireworks, disgrace
sharp as ever. Tonight,
nearing the other shore,
the sailors’ faces seem lit with expectation.

Each trip, nameless passengers touch and jostle.
As far as the eye can reach,
the far shore glitters,
a shaken flame, the stars
that wink from childhood.
The weary may rest awhile on the lower deck.
This small ferry docks
at the edge of the imagined.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

兩幅圖畫 （選自《巴托克組曲》）

穿過奇幻綿延的佈景
回到幽暗起伏的後台
戲劇性的弦樂在蜿蜒山路
轉移過一段又一段彎路
戛然靜止中看見了隱沒的機關
直至白光忽然照亮一切
顯露的事物明亮中再次隱沒
只聽見木板上的足音
像Bartók的音樂
《神奇官員》改換了背景
荒誕的故事在亞洲發生
才能在作者的本國演出
Bartók收集遺忘的民謠
創作出心中的幽暗
優美中按捺不住狂怒
又忽然平靜起來
像掩飾病情的精神病患
捆綁了醫生拋入大海

有什麼神奇的事掩映明滅
在很久以前的《兩幅圖畫》裏
微風中的花卉一瓣一瓣地開展
輕柔的舒張逐漸改變自己
成長的形態在優美挺立中憂傷
收容初生陽光只疏落的一束
照在隱秘的房子裏潛藏能量
開列一個一個生長與凋萎的名堂
一刻眾聲俱寂之後
鄉村中急見快速舞步
眾人互換時隱時現的舞伴
微暗中繼續旋轉下去

TWO PICTURES

from “The Bartók Suite”

The stage is poised,
a dim, hilly backdrop,
the strings dramatically ascending a mountain path,
one bend after another.
Sudden silence, white light
bursting onto everything,
then the visible slowly emerging,
and footsteps on a wooden floor,
just as in Bartók’s music.
The Miraculous Mandarin,
no less absurd set in Asia.
Bartók gathered country ballads
for his own inner darkness,
rage leaping against grace
before collapsing to serenity,
like a madman hiding his illness
but tossing the doctor in the sea.

Where lies the miracle?
In Two Pictures, long ago
petals surrender to the breeze,
each opening, changing,
touched by the first stroke of sunlight,
their gestures elegant but sad,
speaking the secrets of bud and wither.
At the moment silence descends,
quick steps of the peasant dance,
the partners changing, whirling,
half-lit, faceless.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

木偶王子 （選自《巴托克組曲》）

徜徉在無聲的森林
你比無聲的世界更沉默
永遠睜開的雙眼從不搜索
變幻的原野以流水的聲音
替你回答，替你說話

你初生的生命不是由一擊閃電賦予
而是由持續的塑造、由你自身的忍耐
由一個一個期待的夜晚生成
完美的木偶來自充滿瑕疵的肉體
活動的堅實源自虛無
源自王子心中生滿如刀的荊棘

公主與你一同起舞
讓你更接近成為一個活人
直至微弱的體溫消去
你讓她相信另有一個木質的世界
你就會更接近成為一個活人
在她微溫的手裏
製造你的王子絕望無言
你讓他幾乎成為了人

THE WOODEN PRINCE

from “The Bartók Suite”

In a soundless forest, you roam
more silent than the silent world,
your unclosed eyes unseeing.
Streams glide through clearings,
your speech and answer.

Your life was not kindled
by lightning, but layer by layer,
grew your own body
through long, expectant nights,
not mortal flesh but undying puppet,
from nothing a moving permanence,
its prince’s heart run through by thorns.

When the princess takes you in her arms
to dance, you long to wake
before your body cools.
If only she’d believe,
the warmth of her touch could give you breath.
The real prince who made you
lies wordless in despair.
You almost make him live.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

弦樂四重奏 （選自《巴托克組曲》）

幽暗的馬路通往何處？
迎面而來的人看不見面孔
只感覺到散發熱能的身軀
與我前進步伐一樣緩慢地通過
在身後轉入了一道窄長的階梯

從未停竭的戰火至今漫延
又有炮彈降落在什麼地區？
這暗街也潛藏呼號，一次又一次
Bartók的弓弦敲擊街道
重覆又重覆，嘶叫轉為喘息
大廈窗外一團白色像一個懸吊的人
細看只是一堆曬晾衣物
刺眼車燈駛過後不會再回來

所有攝入眼中的事物都遷移過
我在另一個途人眼中也只出現一次
我左右擺動的手，前後往復的腳
像四把高低不同的提琴
至中途僅餘一把，獨奏出變異的音
有一道電流通過街道，通過我
沉重疼痛的頭，模糊視線稍稍對準焦點
便能看見一張Bartók的臉
平視的雙眼望穿我身軀
一直朝向更幽暗的後方

STRING QUARTET

from “The Bartók Suite”

Where can this dark road lead?
Others approach, unseen faces,
flesh yielding up its heat.
Like mine, their slow steps
steer toward a long and narrow stairway.

The ceaseless flames of war blaze on.
How many bombs hit which country?
The street buries its own cries. Again and again
Bartók’s bowstrings strike the pavement
and whimpers choke to gasps.
Outside a high window, a pale form
limp as a hanging corpse,
but it’s just laundry. The lights of cars
dazzle past and don’t come back.

Whatever’s seen must move.
The eyes of passersby behold me only once.
My hands swing left and right, one foot after the other,
four stringed instruments at different pitch.
Walking melds their notes.
Voltage spikes along the street,
pulsing at my swollen brain.
When my head clears,
Bartók’s face appears,
his leveled gaze slicing
straight through my body
toward all that lies beyond,
its shadows and its gloom.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

泡沫照像

少年倚著欄杆面向我們
午後眩目的陽光在他背後
看不清他咀嚼口香糖的臉
你舉起照相機拍攝數十呎外的他
另一人在旁吹起肥皂泡，飄入鏡頭
向著少年向眩目的陽光飄去

照相機沒有記錄那一刻之後
肥皂泡怎樣以透明的外殼
捕住少年，徐徐離開地面之前
小孩以手指一一戳破
結束他過早預知的旅程

一個一個如流水的肥皂泡
還有另一些我們認識的朋友
在泡沫內，沒有完全破滅
奇異的願望緩緩生長
透明的房屋，被風吹起的泡沫
有一雙變焦攝錄的眼睛，靈活地轉動

再提起你的照相機，你一說話
就呼起累累泡沫如透明的糖果
透明的酒在透明的瓶內
又傾瀉在一隻玻璃杯裏
從杯底冒起泡沫，我們年少的臉
苦苦留下寫實的照像
還是一戳就破

BUBBLES

The teen watches us across the rail,
the glare of afternoon
shading his gum-chewing face.
At ten meters, you raise your camera
but a string of soap bubbles
enters the frame,
floating toward the sunlight,
the camera missing the moment
the bubbles arrive
as one by one a small boy pops them.

Some friends drift in spheres
still unbroken. Within
strange dreams expand, inflate,
transparent houses in the breeze,
rolling slowly like eyes or lenses.

Talking of your camera,
you too breathe bubbles,
translucent candy,
clear wine from a clear bottle
poured into a glass.
Bubbles rise,
like our young faces
reflecting
part of some part of the truth,
but breaking at one touch.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

餘燼

小時學會摺出許多金銀
形狀一致而意義不明
祖母把它們投向火堆
那些紙錢與金銀燃燒之火
在梯間明滅照出我們的身影
墻壁上各種文字圖形
也隨著它們晃蕩不定

互相參照引用彼此的抽象和詭異
盡是一般隱晦內裏的底蘊
無法看透。也感到一絲溫暖
對逐漸扭曲變形的燃燒物
投注好奇和不捨

目中閃閃如電，現在慢慢熄滅
帶著祖母期盼的平安與福佑
（不知她在祝願一個怎樣的明天
認真地相信物件通過燃燒可到達
另一空間）那些餘燼好像在掙扎
緩緩地濡動，翻出僅存的能量
在這方內鐵質的焦黑容器裏
且待赤紅帶著祝願無聲息漸化成灰

EMBERS

When I was small
I learned to fold this gilded, silvered paper,
its meaning still obscure.
Grandma tossed the squares of ghost money
to the flames, their shimmer
flickering the stairway, pulsing at our shadows.
Along the wall
pranced shifting characters, swaying forms.

Their veiled inner life,
masked in strange abstraction,
seemed impossible to know.
Yet some writhing filament of warmth
still drew me.

The dying sparks electrified the eye
with Grandma’s prayer
that fire could be passage
to some safe and blissful realm.
Blackening in the brazier,
these embers burned to utter
one final, ardent wish,
last incandescence
before the ash.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

灣仔老街

一陣風教我們看見樹
窸窣生聲，不是雨
是仍然嫩綠的葉
當腳步帶動視線挪移

下一陣風吹落了葉
教我們說話斷續
撿拾的葉片堆積成
慘綠地碎散的故事

就這樣完結了嗎？你說
風靜，樹也枯竭殘留在
大片渾濁初生的工地上

輕搖落一段窸窣舊事
不是雨，是再生的風
教我們逐漸看見了樹

OLD STREET, WAN CHAI

A breath of wind shows us the tree,
its rustling not from rain,
but leaves still green and tender.
Our views alter with our steps.

Sudden gusts shred leaves
and we stutter,
this scattering
its own torn story.

The wind gone still,
you ask if it’s over,
a stark tree stripped
on a bald building site.

Let fall the rustling past,
let wind, not rain, restore
leaf by leaf this tree.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

亂雲

傾倒茶壺內的語言
冒出裊裊白煙
從此刻起逐漸冷卻
那簡短的對答像幾聲錚錝弦音
還餘下多少時間
凝結的空氣就溶化為水？
移動的秒針
指向最後一班開出的車

靜物開始移動
畫中的花卉也瘋狂地
移近太陽
但二人仍然靜止
女子看錶
男子唱家鄉的曲
為失去的分秒配上歌詞

藉著午後斜射的陽光
看見室內各式物件
明亮而整齊
二人被照亮了一半的臉
總在說話時稍微改換角度
明亮了一些，同時幽暗了另一些
悄悄地把說出的話
放入另一邊臉的陰影裏去

傾斜，再傾斜
二人的影蓋在桌上
再移到地上
趁著還有光
它的期限都寫在窗邊
二人不動的影暫作地面的雲
雲影下面再有
另一對傾斜的影

UNSETTLED CLOUDS

Burbling its verb
poured from the teapot,
white steam rises
before it cools.
A short dialogue with air,
chordal as plucked strings.
How long until
these notes resolve as water?
Toward the day’s last bus
the second hand advances.

Still lives alter.
Even in a painting,
motionless flowers
twist sunward.
She checks her watch,
he hums a song from his hometown,
filling final moments with its tune.

In the slant light of afternoon
objects in the room
look bright and ordered.
The man’s and woman’s shining faces
shift in conversation,
one angle gleaming, one gone dim,
their words sliding
from the light.

Slant, more slant.
Shadows on the table
slowly claim the floor,
shadow clouding shadow.
The terms for what is left
are written on the window.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell