《關(guān)于永恒》

馬可尼

當我們說 這個世界是如此的浮躁 我們的心 其實已經(jīng)亂了 像一片秋葉 在風中輕輕顫抖 當我們說 青春很容易逝去 我們的心 其實已經(jīng)老了 像一汪靜水 映照著歲月的皺紋 當我們說 愛情也是靠不住的 我們的心 其實已經(jīng)經(jīng)歷過了 像一盞孤燈 在黑暗中默默燃燒 當我們說 不再爭取 我們的心 其實已經(jīng)疲憊了 像一只倦鳥 在黃昏中尋找歸巢 我們一直在追求 永恒 卻被理智 拉回到現(xiàn)實 像一個沒有結(jié)尾的故事 留下念想 讓我們停留在童話里 而母親的愛 卻是像時光里定格的畫面 無論她在與不在 永恒就在那里 靜靜地 等著我們 回家的路 譯文：When we sayThis world is so restless and vain,Our heartsHave already lost their calmLike an autumn leafTrembling softly in the wind. When we sayYouth fades away so easily,Our heartsHave already grown oldLike still waterReflecting the wrinkles of time. When we sayLove too is unreliable,Our heartsHave already lived through itLike a lonely lampBurning quietly in the dark. When we sayWe will strive no more,Our heartsHave already grown wearyLike a tired birdSeeking its nest in the dusk. We are always chasingEternity,But reasonDrags us back to realityLike a story without an ending,Leaving us with longing,Lingering in a fairy tale. Yet a mother’s loveIs like a moment frozen in time—Whether she is here or not,Eternity remains there,QuietlyWaiting for usOn the way back home. 《為我的詩作序：當文字止步，而愛開始》 我寫下這些句子時，正處在一種矛盾的清醒中——我知道自己在用有限的文字，追趕著無限的情感。 那些“當我們說……其實已經(jīng)……”的結(jié)構(gòu)，是我為自己、也為同代人畫下的一幅精神自畫像。我們總在言說中暴露失去，在嘆息里泄露年齡。秋葉、靜水、孤燈、倦鳥……這些意象不是修辭，它們是我——以及許多人——心靈狀態(tài)的直接顯影。我們活在一種普遍的“后失去”狀態(tài)里：當我們能命名某種匱乏時，它往往已成事實。 而關(guān)于“永恒”的段落，是我最誠實的自我剖白。我（我們）多么渴望將某些瞬間鑄成不朽的藝術(shù)品，像童話停格在最美的篇章。席慕蓉說這是“一件想挽回什么的欲望”，我深以為然。我的詩，正是這欲望的產(chǎn)物——試圖用文字的凈土，容納終將消逝的悸動。 但詩的轉(zhuǎn)折，發(fā)生在母親出場的那一刻。 寫到此處，我放下了所有詩人的技藝。因為母親的愛拒絕被“藝術(shù)品化”。她不是我們建構(gòu)的“永恒”，不是對抗消逝的努力，她就是存在本身。文字在這里顯得笨拙——我無法“描寫”她，只能“指認”她：愛就在那里，如路靜候。 這揭示了我寫作的深層真相：前面所有關(guān)于浮躁、青春、愛情、疲憊的嘆息，所有對永恒的追尋，在母愛面前都顯出了它們的“相對性”。我們一生所求的“不朽記憶”，或許只是因為尚未認出那早已存在的、無條件的永恒。 所以這首詩，最終是一首歸返之詩。 我用前面的四節(jié)，丈量了人與永恒之間的距離；用最后一節(jié)，記錄了那道無需丈量、始終存在的橋。母親的愛，不是詩歌的題材，而是詩歌得以誕生的源泉；不是被言說的對象，而是讓所有言說獲得意義的光。 寫完最后一行，我放下了筆。文字所能做的已經(jīng)完成，而愛，正在文字之外靜靜延伸—— 像一條路，等著所有流浪的詞，回家。 Preface to My Poem: Where Words End, Love Begins I wrote these lines in a state of paradoxical clarity—knowing that I was using finite words to chase infinite emotion. The structure of “when we say… we have already…” serves as a spiritual self-portrait I drew for myself and for our generation. We always reveal our losses in what we say, betray our age in our sighs. The autumn leaf, the still water, the solitary lamp, the weary bird—these are not mere rhetoric. They are direct reflections of my own state of heart, and that of many others. We live in a kind of universal “post-loss” condition: by the time we can name a certain lack, it has often already become fact. The passage about “eternity” is my most honest self-confession. How intensely I (we) long to cast certain moments into enduring works of art, like a fairy tale frozen at its most beautiful chapter.席慕蓉 said this is “a desire to retrieve something,” and I profoundly agree. My poem is precisely a product of that desire—an attempt to contain within the pure land of words the stirrings that are destined to fade. But the poem’s turn occurs the moment the mother appears. Writing to this point, I laid aside all poetic craft. Because a mother’s love refuses to be “art-ified.” She is not a “永恒” we construct, not an effort against fading—she is existence itself. Language feels clumsy here—I cannot “describe” her, I can only “point to” her: the love is simply there, like a road waiting in stillness. This reveals a deeper truth about my writing: all the preceding sighs about restlessness, youth, love, and weariness, all the seeking after eternity, reveal their “relativity” before maternal love. The “immortal memory” we spend our lives pursuing may simply be because we have not yet recognized the unconditional eternity that has always existed. Thus, this poem is ultimately a poem of return. With the first four sections, I measured the distance between humanity and eternity; with the final section, I recorded that bridge which needs no measuring and has always been there. A mother’s love is not the subject of poetry, but the very source from which poetry is born; not the object of speech, but the light that gives all speech its meaning. After writing the last line, I set down my pen. What words could do was complete, yet love continues to extend quietly beyond them— like a road, waiting for all wandering words to come home.

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《關(guān)于永恒》

馬可尼