达尔维什”悬诗“

悬诗
无人带领我走进我自己。我即带领。
在沙漠与大海间，我带领我走进我自己。
生于语言在两个部族间走向印度，
饰以古代信仰之月光与不可企及之和平，
被迫守卫波斯近邻的边界与拜占庭之谜，
好减轻阿拉伯帐篷上空的时间之重。
 “我是谁？”别人如此问我，可我没有答案。
我是我的语言，我是一首悬诗，两首悬诗，十首。这是我的语言。
我是我的语言。文字命令我：“成为!成为我的躯体!”
我即成了文字音色的化身。
我是对文字说过的话：“成为一处，在那里
我的躯体联接了沙漠的永恒。
成为吧，好让我变成我的文字。”
世间没有土地承载我。惟有我的文字承载我，
一只鸟自我生出，筑巢于目前我的荒墟中，
于我周围无常世界的碎石中。
我立于风之上，我漫长的暗夜无穷尽。
这是我的语言，是一条繁星项链
绕在我所爱人们的颈上。而他们迁离了。
他们带走此地迁离了，他们带走时间迁离了。
他们提走碗中的香气迁离了。
他们带走荒凉的牧场迁离了。
他们带走词。遭毁损的心与他们一道离开了。
回声，这回声，这洪亮的白色幻景
是否会留存一个名，以嘶哑填充未知，
被离散填以神圣？
天空为我打开一扇窗。我张望，却只发现
自己独立窗外（从来如此）
和我驱散不去的幻象。
我的脚步是风和沙，我的世界是我的身体
和我所能掌握的。
我是旅人也是道路。
神向我显现又隐没。
我们不踌躇于将来之事。
这沙漠中没有明日，只有我们昨日所见，
就让我挥舞这首颂诗打破时间之循环，
让美好的日子来临!
多少过去在明日储存!
我把自己，一个充满此在的自己，留给自己，
离散清空了我身内的殿宇。
天穹自有其国家与战争。
我以羚羊作妻，
以棕榈树作沙之书中的颂诗。
我之所见皆成过去。
于人类，一个尘土之王国与一顶冠冕。
让我的语言战胜那敌视我的命运，战胜我的血脉，
战胜我，战胜我父，战胜永不消逝的消逝。
这是我的语言，我的奇迹，我的魔杖。
这是我的石碑，我的巴比伦花园，
我最初的身份，我磨亮的金属，一个阿拉伯人的沙漠偶像，
他崇拜像长袍上的繁星一样漂浮的韵律，
他崇拜自己的文字。
所以要有文。
定要有一篇圣文待先知凯旋。
注;悬诗，Mu'allaqat，阿拉伯6,7世纪早期诗歌的代表。阿拉伯人每年要到麦加朝觐天房，朝觐前，在麦加附进进行集中活动，并举行赛诗会，诗人朗诵自己的作品，获胜的诗用金水抄写在麻布上，挂到古庙的墙上，宛如一串明珠挂在脖子上，人们称之为悬诗。据说有7首悬诗是阿拉伯诗歌的不朽之作。代表诗人是乌姆鲁勒.盖斯。
摘自达尔维什诗选《很不幸，那曾是天堂》
A Rhyme for the Odes (Mu'allaqat)
No one guided me to myself. I am the guide.
Between desert and sea, I am my own guide to myself.
Born of language on the road to India between two small tribes,
adorned by the moonlight of ancient faiths and an impossible peace,
compelled to guard the periphery of a Persian neighborhood
and the great obsession of the Byzantines,
so that the heaviness of time lightens over the Arab's tent.
Vlho am I? This is a question that others ask, but has no answer.
I am my language, I am an ode , two odes, ten. This is my language.
I am my language. I am words' writ: Be! Be my body!
And I become an e mbodi ment of their timbre.
I am what I have spoken to the words: Be the place where
my body joins the eternity of the desert.
Be, so that I may become my words.
No land on earth bears me. Only my words bear me,
a bird born from me who builds a nest in my ruins
before me, and in the rubble of the enchanting world around me.
I stood on a wind, and my long night was without end.
This is my language, a necklace of stars around the necks
of my loved ones. They emigrated.
They carried the place and em igrated, they carried time and emigrated.
They lifted their fragrances from their bowls.
They took their bleak pastures and emigrated.
They took the words. The ravaged heart left with them.
Wil l the echo, this echo, this white, sonorous mirage
hold a name whose hoarseness fills the unknown
and whom departure fills with divinity?
The sky opened a window for me. I looked and found nothing
save myself outside itself, as it has always been,
and my desert-haunted visions.
My steps are wind and sand, my world is my body
and what I can hold onto.
I am the traveler and also the road.
Gods appear to me and disappear.
We don't linger upon what is to come.
There is no tomorrow in this desert, save what we saw yesterday,
so let me brandish my ode to break the cycle of time,
and let there be beautiful days!
How much past tomorrow holds!
I left myself to itself, a self filled with the present.
Departure emptied me of temples.
Heaven has its own nations and wars.
I have a gazel le for a wife,
and palm trees for odes in a book of sand.
What I see is the past.
For mankind, a kingdom of dust and a crown.
Let my language overcome my hostile fate, my line of descendants.
Let it overcome me, my father, and a vanishing that won't vanish.
This is my language, my miracle, my magic wand.
This is my obelisk and the gardens of my Babylon,
my first identity, my polished metal, the desert idol of an Arab
who worships what flows from rhymes like stars in his aha,
and who worships h is own words.
So let there be prose.
There must be a divine prose for the Prophet to triumph.
( translated by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché )