《元辩》 作者：孟伟

她说，你搭了一座漂亮的宫殿。

而我，决定拆解这悬垂的语法宫殿，

用它的失重，为女儿搭一间游乐园。

她说，极好。空出的中央E，

正好挂上一轮杜甫的月亮。

我说，那孩子们透明的凝视，

便是世间未被篡改的，最稚嫩的初稿。

她提醒，成人的信箱里，

仍躺着春秋寄来的、磨损的信。

我回答，

那么我的回执，

将是一封只降下半旗的冬天。

她警告：你的诗，正陷入自设的、

流沙般的标点。

我反驳：流沙只吞噬足踝。而我，

是携带蓝图与准绳的，夜的勘测员。

她说，走出这片词语的密林，

方能遇见更粗砺的年轮。

我想，那或许只是，

她思想的破折号不够长。

她最终低语：记得去寻——

那棵能给女儿做滑梯、会讲童话的树。

那么，请借力推我一把。

让我从它的枝头跃向悬崖，

完成一次精准的弹跳，

并顺势，

赎回那枚抵押在古典里的、

薄薄的月。

English version:

Meta-Debate
By Meng Wei

She said, you've built a beautiful palace.
And I, I've decided to dismantle this suspended grammar palace,
use its weightlessness to build a playground for my daughter.

She said, excellent. The empty center
would be the perfect place to hang Du Fu's moon.
I said, the transparent gaze of children
is the world's most unaltered, most tender first draft.

She reminded me, in the mailbox of adults
still lie worn letters sent by Spring and Autumn.
I replied, then my receipt
will be a winter flying its flag at half-mast.

She warned: your poetry is sinking into
the quicksand of its own punctuation.
I countered: quicksand only swallows ankles. I,
I am a night surveyor, carrying blueprints and a plumb line.

She said, only by leaving this dense forest of words
can you encounter coarser growth rings.
I thought, perhaps that's just
her thought's dash not long enough.

She finally whispered: remember to seek—
that tree that could become a slide for your daughter, that could tell fairy tales.
Then, please give me a push.
Let me leap from its branch toward the cliff,
complete one precise bounce,
and in that motion,
redeem that thin moon
pawned in the classics.

《秋月拒绝解释》

作者：孟伟

她，

我十三月的旧稿，

正浣洗一封被灵感勒出淤青的信。

洗出木素黄的地质层，

她反复揉擦，

直到，

擦去天空最后的一朵云。

她宣称没有了云就可以撒网—— 捕获“这完美的、拒绝解释的秋月。”

而我在重读，

如考古自己的战场。

于是，

我解构了这场拉锯战。

当一切在火中坍缩为灰烬之前，

我取下余温，

逆着词序，

走回那个摘月的傍晚，

将余温播撒正在冷却的 月亮的环形山上。

——一次对绝对无用之美的，

精密献祭。

The Autumn Moon Refuses Explanation
By Meng Wei

She, my manuscript from the thirteenth month,
is washing a letter bruised by inspiration.
Washing out woody yellow geological strata,
she rubs and rubs,
until the last cloud is rubbed from the sky.
She declares: with no clouds, we can cast the net—
to catch "this perfect autumn moon that refuses explanation."

And I, rereading, like excavating my own battlefield.
So I deconstruct this tug-of-war.
Before everything collapses to ash in the fire,
I take the remaining warmth, reverse the word order,
walk back to that moon-plucking evening,
and sow the remaining warmth on the cooling
lunar mountains.
—a precise sacrifice
to absolutely useless beauty.

《悲壮之歌》 作者：孟伟

清晨，

稿纸上一滩文字的血。

它来自被钟摆撞碎的、韵律的头颅吗？

不。

昨夜，冷峻的雨与抒情的月亮势不两立。

雨，向我倾销一个哲学的库存，

作为报偿——我转身，弑杀了那枚 曾在我迷茫中照耀过的，月。

于是，雨用万千银白的冷智，

摁熄了席卷而来的抒情热浪。

逻辑在它灌溉的水洼里，再次发芽。

可你，雨啊，

却在羡慕：羡慕朦胧的风能窃听

少男少女最潮湿的隐喻。

于是，风以气声吹开万朵解释的涟漪，

像透明的注脚，开在你头颅之上。

可你，风啊，

却在嫉妒：嫉妒雨能在水洼，

终身囚禁一枚“无法翻译的秋月”。

而我，元凶与记录者，

在雨后清晨重走这老街。

成为， 那唯一位无法被救赎的，月亮的，

——打捞者。

English version:

A Tragicomic Song
By Meng Wei

Morning. A pool of bloody words on the page.
Does it come from the head of rhythm, shattered by the pendulum?
No.

Last night, cold rain and the lyric moon were irreconcilable.
Rain peddled me a stockpile of philosophy,
and in return—I turned and executed that moon
which had once shone through my confusion.

So rain, with countless silver fingers of cold wisdom,
extinguished the surging waves of lyric heat.
Logic, in the puddles it irrigated, began to sprout again.
But you, rain—
you envied the hazy wind for eavesdropping
on the dampest metaphors of young lovers.

So the wind, with its breathy voice, blew open ten thousand ripples of explanation,
like transparent footnotes, blooming atop your skull.
But you, wind—
you envied the rain for imprisoning, in its puddles,
an "untranslatable autumn moon" for life.

And I, the culprit and the scribe,
walk this old street again in the rain-washed morning.
Becoming the one—the only one who cannot be redeemed—
who salvages the moon.