回声之夜

作者：阿勒

你不会在我的唇间找到你的名字，
它已经在昨夜被盐分浸透，
在玻璃窗后的对白中，

被阴影遗弃。

你不会在门前等到一个陌生人，
雨滴悬在空气里，像破裂的钟声，
时间站在街灯之下，
拨弄着夜晚残余的音符。

你不会在眼中窥见泪水，
井已干涸，石头仍在沉默，
只有脚步声穿过午夜，
被回声缓缓地吞没。

night of echoes

translated by PLS

you will not find your name between my lips

for it was permeated by salt yesterday

abandoned by shadows, 

in the dialogue behind the window.

you will not encounter a stranger at your doorstep

drops of rain hang in the air, like exploded bell sounds

time, standing beneath a street lamp

fiddling with the remnant notes of the evening.

you will not see a tear in the eye

the well has dried, stones are still silent

the footsteps that traverse the night

are swallowed by echoes, bit by bit

多汁的眼睛

                 去年今日此门中

                      — 唐.崔护

作者：刘炯

一定是气候，催生多汁

的视线，让许多夜晚

相互浸透，界限模糊

苦笋的气息剥开旧年，这片密林

正以想象的沉默赋予另一个人光阴

嫩绿光照处，笃信露水的真理

枝头，果实的欲望再显，像极了

潜意识漫来痉挛。此刻

我不是孤寂的空，而是枝条上

无数被窥见的隐秘花期

sappy eyes

this time last year by this door*

translated by PLS

it must be the climate, that breeds

the sappy view, allowing many a night

to infiltrate each other, borders blurred

the scent of bitter bamboo shoots strip the old year, this forest

endows time to another person with imagined silence

upon the tender green light, believing in the truth of dew

over treetops the desire of fruits reemerges, so much like

the subconsciousness that brims and cramps. right now

i am no isolated emptiness, but the secret

countless blooming periods glimpsed across the twigs 

*from a poem written by Cui Hu, a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty. 

代价

作者：朴杪

幽绿的气息旋绕着，

屋外是潮湿的茫然。

一个场景里风的加入，

终结了没有引擎轰鸣的童年。

造物主和造物已接连逝去。

还剩什么在抽搐呢？

我们不再服下

与自己姓名有关的事物。

身后漫长的鸿沟里，

流水仍浸润

未被收藏的死亡的倒影。

列车必须开动前，

拔起狗尾草时的“噗嗤”

成为体内不断拉长的哨音。

cost

translated by PLS

the emerald air billows

outside wet confusions.

the participation of wind in a scene,

ends a childhood without the roars of an engine.

the creator and the created are both gone now.

what else is left to convulse.

we no longer medicate ourselves

with anything related to our names.

in the never-ending chasm behind us

the shadows of death yet to be collected

are still soaked by the water.

before the train has to take off

the sound from uprooting a foxtail

has become a swelling whistle inside you.