Verdi

East is a huge camel­lia, the snow you walk in,
the red jack­et flaps like her lips opening.
You approach where she breathes, then turn
and descend the cliff of her jaws, slid­ing like a sampan.

Before you, the wind, the water, every­thing flows
with­out col­or. You con­tin­ue to walk, so small, leaden,
like a bul­let of an unfired gun, a murder
with­out blood, an emp­ty word, a prepo­si­tion, a particle.

Adjec­tives have failed, you look for the verb
uncon­sum­mat­ed, but it doesn’t drift or vibrate—
just pro­ceeds lit­tle by lit­tle, soundless,
but heavy like inhal­ing— death turns

its camel­lia face, an eagle strug­gling on petaled wings 
greedy for a new life. Peo­ple watch, and sigh.
Only you have gone there, and returned to tell me:
it’s so white, bring along a flow­er­ing dress.

(Trans­lat­ed by Ming Di and Tony Barnstone)
 

威尔第

东方一朵巨大的茶花。你在雪地走，
红色风雪衣，如她的嘴唇，在开合，
你走近呼吸处，又返身，走向
她下颚的悬崖，你走下去，轻如舢板，

前面是风，是水，是冰，是一切没有光色
的流动，你继续走，那么细微，那么弱，
是虚晃一枪的子弹，是杀人
不见血的潜台词，是虚词，是介词，

是一切形容词都失败了，你还在找那个
没有使用过的动词，它不飘动，不振动，
只是一点点移动，悄无声息，
又如呼吸一样笨重——死亡翻过身来——

茶花的脸，苍鹰一样高远，缓慢地飞，
如恋恋不忘一次贪生。很多人翘望，叹息，
只有你走过去，并回来告诉我，
那里很白，去时多带一件花衣。