Photo by David Whyte
貝殼
An open sandy shell
on the beach
empty but beautiful
like a memory
of a protected previous self.
海灘上
一只敞開、含沙的貝殼，
虛空而美麗，
如一個受保護的
舊我記憶。
The most difficult griefs,
ones in which
we slowly open
to a larger sea, a grander
sweep that washes
all our elements apart.
在那些最艱難的
悲傷裡，
我們緩慢的
向一面
更巨大的海洋敞開，
一陣更壯闊的襲捲
將我們的片斷沖散。
So strange the way
we are larger
in grief
than we imagined
we deserved or could claim
and when loss floods
into us
like the long darkness it is
and the old nurtured hope
is drowned again,
even stranger then
at the edge of the sea,
to feel the hand of the wind
laid on our shoulder,
reminding us
how death grants
a fierce and fallen freedom
away from the prison
of a constant
and continued presence,
how in the end
those who have left us
might no longer need us,
with all our tears
and our much needed
measures of loss
and that their own death
is as personal
and private
as that life of theirs
which you never really knew,
and another disturbing thing,
that exultation
is possible
without them.
多奇特啊，
我們於悲傷中
更為巨大，
比想像中自己值得的
或能夠宣稱的
更為巨大；
而當失去
如洪水般襲入我們，
如一陣漫長的黝暗；
受呵護的古老希望
再度淹溺，
那時，更奇特的是
於海邊
感受到風之手
輕撫肩頭，
提醒我們
死亡承諾著
一種殘暴而傾圮的自由，
得以自一座持續現前的
牢獄掙脫；
而那些離開的人
也許不再需要我們，
不需要我們所有的眼淚
和我們極需的
對失去的種種度量；
而他們的死亡
是個人性
而私密的，
一如他們的一生，
那你從未真正知曉的一生；
還有一件事更惱人—
沒有了他們，
歡欣
仍是可能。
And they for themselves
in fact
are glad to have let go
of all the stasis
and the enclosure
and the need for them to live
like some prisoner
that you only wanted
to remain incurious
and happy in your love,
never looking for the key,
never wanting to
turn the lock and walk
away
而對他們自己來說，
事實上
他們樂於放下
一切滯留
與侷限的範疇，
放下他們必須存活的冀求；
猶如囚犯，
你只想不多過問的
滿足於自己的愛，
從未尋找過那把鑰匙，
從未想過把鎖打開，大步離去 —
like the wind,
unneedful of you,
ungovernable,
unnamable,
free.
如風，
不需要你，
無法統御，
無可名之，
自由。
(Mary May 譯）
