奇普里安•波隆贝斯库《叙事曲》
琴声先于他的咳血穿透肺叶
露珠与大气四周的晨光
均被一根低音的神经困扰
它正攀上弹痕累累的半山腰回旋
倾听炊烟驱散硝烟
看荒芜经年的田园齐声复苏
龙须草点燃响水河两岸
滋养黑松林下长眠的一群牛羊
昨夜丧失痛觉的故土
身披麻鞭，翻越噩梦的城门与我追逐
我逃不出幼年余音缭绕的长廊
说不清一脸童贞
也无心勒缚琴背上的马头
去拜山求医，去结识祖坟的心跳
传说那儿焚香完美
仙人的青丝郁郁成茵
浸泡月牙的浣溪纯得发苦
墨绿色水草如曲张过度的静脉
生死集结在帝国的明镜之外
可是每当有人叙述琴弦上的火苗
血浆中娇艳无比的罂粟
即刻隐灭在他结满碎石的胸口
哭泣的新娘不日远嫁他乡
她的泪腺是河流善变的源头
那些坚守村庄的石榴花、山雀的母语
历经阳光见证的盟誓
一切肩负生命疽疮的过客
都行将入殓赤土
陪葬一名伟大的遗腹子
并当作蒙受征服的蛮荒野史
世世代代为高尚的异族文字所垂青
告别寒冬最后一句虫鸣
琴声滞留在白骨的黑色音孔内
完成又一轮自闭的死循环
他终究比全音的休止符睡得沉稳、悠长
梦里咀嚼被露珠津润的尘泥
亦如重温一座失而复得的山岗
Ciprian Porumbescu 《Ballad》
The wail of violin presaging his bloody coughs, has pierced the lung,
when the aura that surrounds morning dew and fresh body of air
is all haunted by a nerve of low pitch.
It soars to hover the mountainside pitted with shell craters,
listens to the fog of war being dispersed by the cooking smoke,
and eyes deserted fields reviving all at once from the idling years.
Along banks of the roaring river swell the alpine rushes
feeding to the horde forever sleeping under black pine woods.
The homeland through loss of painfulness last night,
is wearing a hemp whip, overcoming the gate of nightmare to chase me.
I can’t escape the childhood corridor meandering with echoes,
give away the face of youthful innocence,
or seize the nomad soul riding on the fiddle
for begging miracles, also meeting pulses of inside ancient tombs.
As legend has it, sacred scents flaunt all over there,
hairs of wizard grow in dark green,
a lucid creek, bathed in by the moon shadow, tastes impalpably bitter
and water grasses overrun like veins creeping beneath skin,
all deadly entangled beyond the solemn reflection of the empire.
But whenever shall anyone have the dance of flame on strings,
the lethally charming poppies in blood
are instantly quelled inside his chest overladen with pebbles crushed.
The weeping bride is to marry off far away,
running her tears as the mercurial origin of rivers.
These pomegranate flowers in defense of village, the native tongue of lark
the oath witnessed by the sunlight,
and each passer-by shouldered with ulcers of life
are all to be coffined into the earth,
for complementing a genius fetus off to his finale
just as a barbarous legend once conquered
then adorned in letters by generations of its noble aliens.
Seeing off the last chirp during the harsh winter,
the violin’s weeping clings to the dark voids within white bones
as to finish off another round of death cycle.
He eventually sleeps in peace over the length of a whole note rest,
chewing in his dream some dampened dust,
as if reminiscing the sight of a hill freshly reclaimed from loss.
