楊鍵 | Yang Jian
再悼二哥
你死之後,
田,犁到一半的時候,
牛死了,
犁田人在地裡大喊一聲,
村裡人循聲趕來,
把血放乾淨了,
再開始分。
四十分鐘後,
一頭牛無影無蹤了。
但它犁了一半的地,
還在那裡,
在一彎新月下邊。
你死之後,
一只喜鵲飛進我們家屋簷。
十一年了,我還沒有脫胎換骨,
我還沒有把松樹種活,
等於還是流離失所,
你回來又有何用?
一片樹葉如同你溫熱的淚打在院子裡,
我是愧對你的死了。
你死之後,
一根壓彎的枯草站起身來,
用什麼也不期待的眼神,
看見萬家燈火亮了。
成群結隊時它孤身一人,
在河堤上時,
還是孤身一人。
你死之後,
這些,
宛如我在江南的一座老橋上
看見的煙雨。
MOURNING MY ELDER BROTHER
After you died,
when the field was half plowed,
the ox collapsed
and the plowman shouted.
Soon villagers appeared,
bled the corpse,
then started cutting.
In forty minutes
a whole ox gone.
The field remained
half plowed
beneath a horned new moon.
After you died,
a magpie flew under our eaves.
Eleven years and I’m still wandering,
neither reborn
nor have I planted a living pine.
What use if you returned?
A leaf spins down to the yard.
I’m ashamed to face your death.
After you died,
a blade of yellow grass stood
hopeless before the lamps of a thousand houses.
Amidst other grass, alone,
or alone on the riverbank.
After you died,
all this
smoky as rain on an old bridge
south of the Yangtze.
trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell
more by Yang Jian
生死戀 | The Pact Between Life and Death
一位繡花的鄉下婦女 | Countryside Woman Embroidering
小幅山水 | A Short Scroll of Mountains and Waters
一首枯枝敗葉的歌 | Song of the Withered Leaf