《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.