礼物

礼物

切斯拉夫·米沃什（Czeslaw Milosz 1911-2004）西川 译  略有改动

如此幸福的一天。

雾一早就散了，我在花园里干活。

蜂鸟停在忍冬花上。

这世上没有一样东西我想占有。

我知道没有一个人值得我羡慕。

任何遭受的不幸，我都已忘记。

想到我曾是那样的人并不使我难堪。

我身体上没感到疼。

挺起身来，我看见蓝色的大海和帆影。

Gift

A day so happy.

Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.

Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.

There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.

I knew no one worth my envying him.

Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.

To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.

In my body I felt no pain.

When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
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At A Certain Age

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.

White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind

was too busy visiting sea after sea.

We did not succeed in interesting the animals.

Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,

A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.

A person seemingly very close

Did not care to hear of things long past.

Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee

Ought not to be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.

It would be humiliating to pay by the hour

A man with a diploma, just for listening.

Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?

That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble

Yet later in our place an ugly toad

Half-opens its thick eyelid

And one sees clearly: “That’s me.”
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A Confession

My Lord, I loved strawberry jam

And the dark sweetness of a woman's body.

Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil,

Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves.

So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spirit

Have visited such a man? Many others

Were justly called, and trustworthy.

Who would have trusted me? For they saw

How I empty glasses, throw myself on food,

And glance greedily at the waitress's neck.

Flawed and aware of it. Desiring greatness,

Able to recognize greatness wherever it is,

And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant,

I knew what was left for smaller men like me:

A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud,

A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.
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From Czeslaw Milosz, "New and Collected Poems (1931-2001)." Ecco/HarperCollins. Copyright