Little Fugue
小赋格曲
The yew’s black fingers wag;
紫杉黑色的树枝摇摆；
Cold clouds go over.
寒冷的云朵飘过。
So the deaf and dumb
那个又聋又哑的人
Signal the blind, and are ignored.
示意盲人，却被忽视了。
I like black statements.
我喜欢忧郁的陈述。
The featureless of that cloud, now!
瞧，那朵云平淡无奇！
White as an eye all over!
苍白仿佛一只眼！
The eye of the blind pianist
盲人钢琴师的那只眼
At my table on the ship.
在船上，我的桌上。
He left for his food.
他摸索着找食物
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
他的手指像鼬鼠的鼻子。
I couldn’t stop looking.
我忍不住瞧着。
He could hear Beethoven:
他可以听见贝多芬：
Black yew, white cloud,
黑色紫杉，白色云朵，
The horrific complications.
可怕的多种并发症。
Finger-traps—a tumult of keys.
手指受阻——琴键的凌乱声。
Empty and silly as plates,
如空盘那般愚蠢，
So the blind smile.
因此盲人微笑了。
I envy the big noises,
我讨厌大声喧哗，
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.
紫杉树篱般的大赋格曲。
Deafness is something else.
耳聋是另一回事。
Such a dark funnel, my father!
如此黑暗的烟囱，我的父亲！
I see your voice
我听见你的声音
Black and leafy, as in my childhood,
忧郁而叶茂，仿佛我的童年。
A yew hedge of orders,
紫杉树篱一样的各种秩序
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
哥特式、野蛮的，纯粹的德国人。
Dead men cry from it.
已死的男人为此哭泣。
I am guilty of nothing.
我毫无内疚。
The yew my Christ, then.
紫杉树，我的耶稣。
Is it not as tortured?
它没有受折磨？
And you, during the Great War
而你，在大战中
In the California delicatessen
在加利福尼亚的熟食店
Lopping the sausages!
在切那些香肠！
They color my sleep,
它们使我的睡眠有趣，
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
红色，斑驳，仿佛切下的脖子。
There was a silence!
然后一片寂静！
Great silence of another order.
另一种秩序的无声寂静。
I was seven, I knew nothing.
我那时七岁，一无所知。
The world occurred.
人生却开始了。
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.
你有一条腿，还有普鲁士人的头脑。
Now similar clouds
相似的云朵
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
正飘散在无聊的床单上。
Do you say nothing?
你没说什么？
I am lame in the memory.
我的记忆缺损。
I remember a blue eye,
我记得一只蓝眼，
A briefcase of tangerines.
装满柑橘的手提包。
This was a man, then!
就是这个人！
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.
死亡呈现，抑郁地，像一棵黑色树。
I survive the while,
那刻我幸存了，
Arranging my morning.
正在安排我的早晨。
These are my fingers, this my baby.
这些是我的手指，这是我的婴儿。
The clouds are a marriage dress, of that pallor.
云朵是结婚礼服，那种苍白。
(1962/04/02. pp.187—189. No.158)
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