llllll
沉默年代
iiii iiiii
密室裡的殘破沉吟 大孤鳥一悲鳴 聽這黯淡離異 聽那酣睡中的聲浪 天與地 荒老與磨難 一場交戰一條永無止息的里路
ii
愛可否燒盡化作灰燼 淋漓是嘔心泣血的詩記 荒廢的書架飽嚐輝光 在石頭上增加空白的名字他知道 又變成那正在開啟的一頁
iii
曠野裡, 有聲音直道: 近了! 你可自由呼吸!!
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我們的腳步流浪過
我們的那些早晨
雷聲剛倒下
在水塘旁的草地上
陰影呢喃口渴的樣子
蘋果樹支著天空開花
可是卻奓迷著
神秘的薄荷氣息
啊 記憶
Passer-By, These Are Words
by Yves Bonnefoy 1923 - present
Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading
I want you to listen: to this frail
Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.
Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee
Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names.
It flits between two sprays of leaves,
Carrying the sound of branches that are real
To those that filigree the still unseen.
Then know an even fainter sound, and let it be
The endless murmuring of all our shades.
Their whisper rises from beneath the stones
To fuse into a single heat with that blind
Light you are as yet, who can still gaze.
May your listening be good! Silence
Is a threshold where a twig breaks in your hand,
Imperceptibly, as you attempt to disengage
A name upon a stone:
And so our absent names untangle your alarms.
And for you who move away, pensively,
Here becomes there without ceasing to be.