一天的钟儿撞过了又一天， 一个和尚做着苍白的深梦： 过去多少年留下的影踪 在记忆里看来就只是一片 破殿里到处弥漫的香烟， 悲哀的残骸依旧在香炉中 伴着善男信女的苦衷， 厌倦也永远在佛经中蜿蜒。
昏沉沉的，梦话又沸涌出了嘴， 他的头儿又和木鱼儿应对， 头儿木鱼儿一样空，一样重； 一声一声的，催眠了山和水， 山水在暮霭里懒洋洋的睡， 他又算撞过了白天的丧钟。
A
Buddhist Monk Bian Zhilin
When day has done tolling its bells, it’s
another day, And a monk dreams a profound and pallid
dream: Over how many years, shadows and traces
are left behind, In the memory seen only in a glimpse, In the ruined temple, everywhere a vague
scent pervades, Lamented bones are left in the censer as
of old, Along with the sad fate of loyal youths,
faithful maidens, Wearily wriggling through the Buddhist
sutras forever.
In a deep stupor, dream-talk foams out
at the mouth, His head once again faces the skull-like
drum, His head, the drum, are alike empty and
heavy, One knock after another, mesmerizing
mountains and streams, The mountains and streams slumber
indolently in the evening mist, And once more, he is done tolling the
dolorous bell of another day.
（Eugene
Chen Eoyang 译） |
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