达尔维什“在大马士革”

在大马士革
在大马士革
鸽子飞起
从丝绸围栏后
成双结对
在大马士革
我看到我的所有语言
藉一个女人的针
写在一颗麦粒上，
被美索不达米亚的河流洁净
在大马士革
阿拉伯马的名字
被金针绣在一起
自蒙昧时代
到审判日或更往后
在大马士革
天空赤脚行于古道
赤脚而行
又何需诗人的
启示、韵律和节奏
在大马士革
异乡人睡在自己的影子上
如宣礼塔立于永恒之床
不怀念任何人任何地
在大马士革
现在时继续着
倭玛亚王朝的事务：
我们走向我们的明天
相信我们昨日的太阳
我们与永恒居于此地
在大马士革
小提琴与乌德琴的对话
萦绕不绝
谈论着存在与终结
女人杀死故爱后
获得天堂的忘忧树
在大马士革
约瑟用笛子
扯断自己的肋骨
不为别的
只因他的心离他而去
在大马士革
语言回到其源头，
水：
诗非诗
散文非散文
而你说：我不会离开你
所以带我到你那里
让我与你同行
在大马士革
一张露水的床榻上
羚羊睡在女人旁
女人脱下外套
把拜拉达河盖上
在大马士革
一只鸟儿啄食
我掌中剩下的麦子
给我留下一粒来展示
我的明天，明天
在大马士革
茉莉花逗弄我：
别走远
跟随我的脚综
于是花园生起嫉妒：
别靠近
我月亮里的夜之血
在大马士革
我与琐碎的梦漫谈
对着杏仁花笑
现实些，我才能重新开花
在她名字的水边
现实些，我才能穿过她的梦
在大马士革
我把自己介绍给它：
就在此处，一双杏仁眼下
我们如孪生兄弟一起飞翔
延后我们共同的过去
在大马士革
言语变柔软
我听见大理石岩脉中的血声
从我儿子那里掳走我
（女囚徒，对我说）
不然就把我变成石头!
在大马士革
我点数我的肋骨
让我的心重新漫步
或许那个准我进入其影子的人
已杀死了我
而我并未发觉
在大马士革
异乡人把象轿归还给大篷车
我不会归还帐篷，
今晚之后我不会挂起我的吉他
在家里的无花果树上
在大马士革
诗是透明的
既不感性也不理性
是回声的交谈
在大马士革
云彩在午后干涸
而后为卡松山脚下的情侣之夏
挖口井
笛子完成了当下的渴望
徒然呜咽
在大马士革
我在一个女人的日记簿上写下:
你心里的纳西索斯在渴求你
没有围栏保护你避开夜的引诱
在大马士革
我看到大马士革的夜如何
慢慢消殒，消殒
我们的女神怎样一个个增多
在大马士革
旅人对自己唱：
我从叙利亚归来
非生
非死
只是像云彩
从我逃亡的心上
减轻蝴蝶的重负
英译：
In Damascus
   by mahmoud darwish
A.
In Damascus,
the doves fly
behind the silk fence
two . . .
by two . . .
B.
In Damascus:
I see all of my language
written with a woman’s needle
on a grain of wheat,
refined by the partridge of the Mesopotamian rivers
C.
In Damascus:
the names of the Arabian horses have been embroidered,
since Jahili times
and through judgment day,
or after,
. . . with gold threads
D.
In Damascus:
the sky walks
barefoot on the old roads,
barefoot
So what’s the poet’s use
of revelation
and meter
and rhyme?
E.
In Damascus:
the stranger sleeps
on his shadow standing
like a minaret in eternity’s bed
not longing for a land
or anyone . . .
F.
In Damascus:
the present tense continues
its Umayyad chores:
we walk to our tomorrow certain
of the sun in our yesterday.
Eternity and we
inhabit this place!
G.
In Damascus:
the dialogue goes on
between the violin and the oud
about the question of existence
and about the endings:
whenever a woman kills a passing lover
she attains the Lotus Tree of Heaven!
H.
In Damascus:
Youssef tears up,
with the flute,
his ribs
Not for a reason,
other than that
his heart wasn’t with him
I.
In Damascus:
speech returns to its origin,
water:
poetry isn’t poetry
and prose isn’t prose
And you say: I won’t leave you
so take me to you
and take me with you!
J.
In Damascus:
a gazelle sleeps
besides a woman
in a bed of dew
then the woman takes off her dress
and covers Barada with it!
K.
In Damascus:
a bird picks
at what is left of wheat
in my palm
and leaves for me a single grain
to show me my tomorrow
tomorrow!
L.
In Damascus:
The jasmine dallies with me:
Don’t go far
and follow my tracks
Then the garden becomes jealous:
Don’t come near
the blood of night in my moon
M.
In Damascus:
I keep my lighthearted dream company
and laughing on the almond blossom:
Be realistic
that I may blossom again
around her name’s water
And be realistic
that I may pass in her dream!
N.
In Damascus:
I introduce myself
to itself:
Right here, beneath two almond eyes
we fly together as twins
and postpone our mutual past
O.
In Damascus:
speech softens
and I hear the sound of blood
in the marble veins:
Snatch me away from my son
(she, the prisoner, says to me)
or petrify with me!
P.
In Damascus:
I count my ribs
and return my heart to its trot
Perhaps the one who granted me entry
to her shadow
has killed me,
and I didn’t notice . . .
Q.
In Damascus:
the stranger gives her howdah back
to the caravan:
I won’t return to my tent
I won’t hang my guitar,
after this evening,
on the family’s fig tree . . .
R.
In Damascus:
poems become diaphanous
They’re neither sensual
nor intellectual
they are what echo says
to echo . . .
S.
In Damascus:
the cloud dries up by afternoon,
then digs a well
for the summer of lovers in the Qysoon valley,
and the flute completes its habit
of longing to what is present in it,
then cries in vain
R.
In Damascus:
I write in a woman’s journal:
All what’s in you
of narcissus
desires you
and no fence, around you, protects you
from your night’s excess allure
S.
In Damascus:
I see how the Damascus night diminishes
slowly, slowly
And how our goddesses increase
by one!
T.
In Damascus:
the traveler sings to himself:
I return from Syria
neither alive
nor dead
but as clouds
that ease the butterfly’s burden
from my fugitive soul.
(translated by Fady Joudah)
诗人的朗读请参看：http://www.alartemag.be/video/in-damascus-kortfilm/