Chapter Ⅳ 接过墨客的衣钵摇旗呐喊（9）（2/2）
《最震撼人心的声音》作者：姜宇 2017-02-11 10:27
上面布满了保佑，祐
从天上来杀死孩子，
孩子们的血沿街流淌，
毫无疑问, 是孩子们的血。
连豺狼们也会对这种豺狼做出谴责，
连最顽强的刺蓟也会将咬下的这种恶核吐出去，
连魔鬼也会对这种魔鬼感到恶心。
面对面地我见过血，
它来自西班牙的塔楼犹如海潮，
将你一下子淹没在骄傲和刀丛的
巨浪中。
背叛者们
将军们:
看看我的死人屋,
看看这破碎的西班牙:
每一间房舍中流出来的是燃烧着的金属
而不是花朵，
从西班牙的每一根筋骨中
西班牙显出来，
每一个死去的孩子身上是一把长枪留下的眼睛，
每一场罪恶都生出一把子弹，
它们将在某一天
找到你的心眼。
你会问: 为何他的诗歌
没有谈及梦想和落叶
以及他家乡巨大的火山。
来看看街上的血。
来看看吧
这街上的血。
在街上!
Here is an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda,“I’m Explaining a Few Things”:
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires,
leapt out of the earth,
devouring human beings,
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings ,
came through the sky to kill children,
and the blood of children ran through the streets,
without fuss, like children’s blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges,
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull’s eye of your hearts.
And you will ask: why doesn’t his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
从天上来杀死孩子，
孩子们的血沿街流淌，
毫无疑问, 是孩子们的血。
连豺狼们也会对这种豺狼做出谴责，
连最顽强的刺蓟也会将咬下的这种恶核吐出去，
连魔鬼也会对这种魔鬼感到恶心。
面对面地我见过血，
它来自西班牙的塔楼犹如海潮，
将你一下子淹没在骄傲和刀丛的
巨浪中。
背叛者们
将军们:
看看我的死人屋,
看看这破碎的西班牙:
每一间房舍中流出来的是燃烧着的金属
而不是花朵，
从西班牙的每一根筋骨中
西班牙显出来，
每一个死去的孩子身上是一把长枪留下的眼睛，
每一场罪恶都生出一把子弹，
它们将在某一天
找到你的心眼。
你会问: 为何他的诗歌
没有谈及梦想和落叶
以及他家乡巨大的火山。
来看看街上的血。
来看看吧
这街上的血。
在街上!
Here is an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda,“I’m Explaining a Few Things”:
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires,
leapt out of the earth,
devouring human beings,
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings ,
came through the sky to kill children,
and the blood of children ran through the streets,
without fuss, like children’s blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges,
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull’s eye of your hearts.
And you will ask: why doesn’t his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see