很轻松，用梦想把自己
带回过去。我想，
语言可能会填充隐私的亏欠。
在外面，一辆红色的自行车
被严霜定格，它白色的严整
让世界更快地前行。秋收之后
发生了如此多的事情：月亮
表现出新的绝技：屠杀，
大雪。此一时
和彼一时相同，我握着自己的手，
或者握着白雪，我就像一个雕塑，
忘记着，或者，记忆着
每一件事。白雪上的红色翅膀，血红的想法
在我和自己重燃的的战争中
炽热发光。我恨这个世界
我恨自己的每件事，即使现在
也在字字闪现，就好像它是
自然的律法。它诉说雪地上野鹿的轻盈，走出寒冷，
看到更多的银杏树裸露在乞丐的树丛。
它说我并不是唯一看到或者听到树木的人，
它们的存在远比我的噪音更伟大。
可能未来是我从蜡烛上掐下的微小火焰。
开始时，我会燃烧。然后，麻木。为什么每个冬天
都会更冷，更绝决？
作者 / [美国]詹妮弗·王
翻译 / 光诸
One winter I lived north, alone
and effortless, dreaming myself
into the past. Perhaps, I thought,
words could replenish privacy.
Outside, a red bicycle froze
into form, made the world falser
in its white austerity. So much
happens after harvest: the moon
performing novelty: slaughter,
snow. One hour the same
as the next, I held my hands
or held the snow. I was like sculpture,
forgetting or, perhaps, remembering
everything. Red wings in the snow,
red thoughts ablaze in the war
I was having with myself again.
Everything I hate about the world
I hate about myself, even now
writing as if this were a law
of nature. Say there were deer
fleet in the snow, walking out
the cold, and more gingkoes
bare in the beggar’s grove. Say
I was not the only one who saw
or heard the trees, their diffidence
greater than my noise. Perhaps
the future is a tiny flame
I’ll nick from a candle. First, I’m burning.
Then, numb. Why must every winter
grow colder, and more sure?
BY JENNIFER CHANG
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