曼德尔施塔姆《干草堆》
I climbed the ladder leaning against the hay,
I breathed the haydust of milky stars.
I breathed the matted scurf of space.
And I thought, why stir up the swarm
of long drawn-out lines of sound?
Why imprison the miraculous Aeolian harmony
The Great Bear, the dipper, has seven stars.
On earth there are five good senses.
The darkness swells and rings out,
and swells and rings out again.
The huge unhitched load sticks up
and soon the hayloft, the old chaos,
will itch and swirl with dust.
We rustle fish-scales that are not ours.
We sing against the fur of the world.
We string a lyre, as though we could not wait
for the shaggy fleece to grow over us.
Mowers bring back the goldfinches
that have fallen from their nests.
I will burst out of these burning lines
and return to the phrase of sound where I was born,
so that the pink link of blood
and the one-armed ringing of the grass may pronounce
their last good-byes: the one mustering courage,
the other setting out for its dream beyond reason.
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