博尔赫斯英文诗两首第一篇选译

by Mengxue

颓然的黎明，阳光洒向我，我伫立在空无一人的街角；已熬过了漫漫黑夜。

夜，是骄傲的浪；深蓝色头重脚轻的浪充斥着各种深沉的色调，满载着可望而不可及的事物。

夜，用它一贯欲拒还迎的伎俩，一边赠与，一边保留，有着黑暗半球的欢乐。

夜，就是如此，我告诉你。

那浪，那夜，留给我惯常的琐碎与怪诞的尾声：

与三两个讨厌的朋友闲聊，听着引发幻想的音乐，抽着苦涩的灰烬。我饥饿的灵魂无处安放。

那巨浪带来你。

言语，任何言语，你的笑声；你那慵懒的美。我们交谈过，而你已将那些话语遗忘。

破晓的黎明，阳光洒向我，我伫立在这城里空无一人的街道。

你背过身去，转身的窸窣声呼出你的名字，

你浅笑的韵律：这些都是你留给我的隽永的“玩具”。

我将它们交付给黎明，我丢弃了它们，我寻回了它们；我将它们讲给几只流浪狗和几颗划过天际的流星。

你那隐秘丰富的生活……

我必须了解你，无论如何：我要丢开你留下的“玩具”，我要揭开你隐藏的容颜，你真正的笑容——你冷冷的镜子反射出的那孤独讥讽的微笑。

Two English Poems

by Jorge Luis Borges

To Beatriz Webster de Bullrich

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived

the night.

Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all

hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.

Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half

given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere.

Nights act that way, I tell you.

The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends:

some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the

smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no

use for.

The big wave brought you.

Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly

beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.

The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.

Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name,

the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have

left me.

I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them

to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.

Your dark rich life…

I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you

have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile

—that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II.

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged

suburbs.

I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long

at the lonely moon.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living

men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in

the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,

bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a

cow; my mother’s grandfather —just twentyfour— heading

a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished

horses.

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness

or humour my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow

—the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with

dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic

and surprising news of yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my

heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger,

with defeat.

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