《元解》 作者：孟伟
与她辩论之后，
我睡的比往日安然了许多。
原本我以为可以要挟她
站在悬崖边缘——
用语法作锤，标点为镐，
逼她承认宫殿必须倾颓。
睡前她递来一句话：
“心为之志，发言即为诗。
你不必攀登喜马拉雅的雪线，
山底的暮色同样托得起
岩石内部的经文。”
今晨，女儿咳出
一串过分规整的“人类格式”的咳。
医嘱如未装裱的偈语：
“生活没有万灵药。
每一次不适，
都是存在 向偶然赎回自己的零钱。”
我不再测绘它积雪的乳线，
当女儿说：“看，月亮在呼吸。”
语法如雪，落回山基。
原来所有的辩论，
都是她借我的口 与悬崖签订的 一份温柔的租约：
我们暂居在失重的宫殿，
用磨损的春秋信件
为女儿折成滑梯，
而每一次精准的弹跳，
不过是把抵押的月光
分期归还给
正在咳嗽的
此刻。
English version:
Meta-Resolution
By Meng Wei
After debating with her,
I slept more peacefully than before.
I had thought I could force her
to stand at the cliff's edge—
with grammar as hammer, punctuation as pick,
make her admit the palace must fall.
Before sleep, she offered a sentence:
"What the heart wills, speech becomes poetry.
You need not climb the snow line of the Himalayas;
the dusk at the mountain's base can also support
the sutras inside the rock."
This morning, my daughter coughed
a string of overly neat "human-format" coughs.
The doctor's advice, like an unmounted gatha:
"Life has no panacea.
Each discomfort is existence
redeeming its small change from chance."
I no longer measure its snow-covered peaks.
When my daughter says, "Look, the moon is breathing,"
grammar, like snow, falls back to the mountain's base.
Turns out all those debates
were just a gentle lease
she signed with the cliff
through my mouth:
we temporarily dwell in this weightless palace,
using worn letters from Spring and Autumn
to fold into a slide for our daughter,
and each precise bounce
is merely paying back in installments
the mortgaged moonlight
to this moment,
which is coughing.