《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.