The Swarm
蜂群

Somebody is shooting at something in our town—
有人在我们镇上射击某物——

A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
周日的街上响起沉闷的砰砰声。

Jealousy can open the blood,
嫉妒会引发流血事件，

It can make black roses.
会让玫瑰变黑。

Who are the shooting at?
他们在射击谁？

It is you the knives are out for
刀拔出对付的是你

At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
在滑铁卢，滑铁卢，拿破仑，

The hump of Elba on your short back,
你背上的驼峰，厄尔巴岛，

And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
还有那雪，排列着铮亮刀剑

Mass after mass, saying Shh!
一堆又一堆，发出嘘嘘声！

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
嘘！你玩耍的是些象棋人，

Still figures of ivory.
象牙制的没有活力的人物。

The mud squirms with throats,
泥浆在喉咙间挪动，

Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
法国人皮靴底下的垫脚石。

The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off
俄罗斯镀金粉色圆顶融化了，漂浮

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
在贪婪的熔炉里。烟雾，烟雾。

So the swarm balls and deserts
蜂群抱成球状，逃走

Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
躲在黑色的松树上，七十英尺高。

It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
必须将它击落。砰！砰！

So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.
沉闷的枪声，蜂群以为是雷声。

It thinks they are the voice of God
蜂群以为是上帝的声音

Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
纵容那狗咧着嘴笑，那嘴，那爪，

Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
黄色腰腿，一只领头狗

Grinning over its bone of ivory
在象牙色骨头上咧嘴笑

Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.
像那只狗，那只狗，像每个人。

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
蜜蜂躲得很高。七十英尺高！

Russia, Poland and Germany!
俄罗斯，波兰，德国！

The mild hills, the same old magenta
缓和的山丘，相似的陈旧紫红色

Fields shrunk to a penny
田野缩成一个便士

Spun into a river, the river crossed.
旋转流进河，河流交叉。

The bees argue, in their black ball,
卷成黑球的蜜蜂，就像，

A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
一只飞翔的刺猬，浑身长刺。

The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
有灰色双手的男子站在蜂窝下面

Of their dream, the hived station
它们的梦想，蜂拥的车站

Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,
火车，忠实于它们的钢铁弧线，

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
离开，到达，驶向没有尽头的国家。

Pom! Pom! They fall
砰！砰！它们跌落

Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
松解了，一团常青藤。

So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
战车驭手，骑马侍从，雄伟的部队，不过如此！

A red tatter, Napoleon!
红色破旧碎片，拿破仑！

The last badge of victory.
胜利的最后一块奖章。

The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
蜂群被击落，掉进三角草帽，

Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
厄尔巴，厄尔巴，大海中的小水泡！

The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
陆军元帅，海军将军，陆军将军将自己白色

Worming themselves into niches.
半身像挪进壁龛。

How instructive this is!
非常有教育意义！

The dumb, banded bodies
木讷，带条纹的尸体

Walking the plank draped with Mother France’s upholstery
在饰有法国母亲软垫的木板上移动

Into a new mausoleum,
进入新的陵墓，

An ivory palace, a crotch pine.
一座象牙宫殿，叉枝松树。

The man with gray hands smiles—
有灰色双手的男人微笑着——

The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
一个生意人的微笑，非常实际。

They are not hands at all
它们根本不是手

But asbestos receptacles.
而是石膏容器。

Pom! Pom!‘They would have killed me.’
砰！砰！“他们原本会杀了我。”

Stings big as drawing pins!
蜂蜇大如图钉！

It seems bees have a notion of honor,
蜜蜂似乎有荣誉之感，

A black intractable mind.
黑色的难对付的头脑。

Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
拿破仑满意了，他对一切都满意！

O Europe! O ton of honey!
啊，欧洲！啊，大量的蜜！

(1962/10/07. pp.215—217. No. 179)
* * *