《井》
作者：孟伟
井，镇守一方清寂。
它的慈悲，是缄默——
对喉中逆鳞，永恒缄默。
契约早已烙入岩层：
锁蛟龙者，永世不可离位。
我为自己，选定一口现代的井。
带着亲手搓就、浸满冷汗的逻辑之绳，
坠向地心之城——
那是绝对无用之美的领地，
再无矿脉可延伸。
黑暗盘旋，
我迷恋失重，拒绝重返。
危险是窦性心跳，在耳膜里鼓噪，
井壁苔滑,指甲嵌进石缝的瞬间——
疼,像被自己的深度咬了一口。
绳语低喃：勿惧，万有法度。
理性在掌心震颤：爬呀，爬。
可这血肉之锚， 怎堪地核辐射？
“既览尽幻美，何不归返人类温室？”
“而温室的糖精， 何尝不是另一种坠落？”
皆是坠落。
一具，在易腐肉身里委顿；
一轴，在透明律令中悬垂。
便将肉身，平放于广阔的水平基准，
任魂灵如孤悬探锤，
钉入个人垂直的绝对零度。
当年我称它为井，
如今才懂——
它是我以绳索丈量的 第一个垂直维度。
所谓放平于大地，
并非躺下， 是让躯壳摊开成共振板，
接收一切水平回波， 测绘万物滑动的斜率。
井的谱系，藏在深处：
最深的图幅从不绘于地表，
而蚀刻在心室岩壁。
那些盛满记忆盲水的井最是可怖：
镜面倒置，圆滑如谎，
映出脸上不断分岔、
与自我辩驳的神经树突。
凝视，便能凿穿水银，直抵井底
—— 以水平肉身接收，以垂直灵魂发射。
如井口石缝的牛筋草，
躬着脊柱，撑直命运。
坐标的召唤，
是一枚永不氧化的童年硬币。
触之，回馈低于冰点的灼热与倔强。
而所有井的终极原型， 是那口不存在之井。
所谓勘探，
终是向一口 无沿之井，
递交 存在的证明。
它专取探井者的脊骨——
髓内，加密着井的全套引力参数。
那是我为自己签收的，
垂直熵增证明。
English version
. The Well
by Mengwei
The well, guarding a tract of silent clarity.
Its mercy is to keep silence—
toward the hidden dragon in its throat, silence eternal.
The covenant was long branded into the rock strata:
he who chains the dragon shall never leave his place.
I chose for myself, a modern well.
With rope hand-twisted, soaked in cold sweat, a rope of logic,
I descend toward the city at the earth's core—
a territory of absolute useless beauty,
where no vein of ore extends.
Darkness spirals,
I am bewitched by weightlessness, refuse return.
Danger throbs like sinus rhythm, drumming in the eardrums,
well-wall slick with moss, fingernails wedged into stone crevices—
the pain, bitten by my own depth.
The rope murmurs: fear not, all is governed by law.
Reason trembles in my palm: climb, climb.
But how can this anchor of flesh and blood,
withstand the core's radiation?
"Having glimpsed the phantom beauty, why not return
to the greenhouse of the human?"
"And yet, the saccharine of that greenhouse—
is it not also a kind of fall?"
Both are falling.
One, languishing in corruptible flesh;
one, suspended in the transparent decree.
So I lay the body flat, on the broad level datum,
let the soul, like a solitary probe,
nail itself into the absolute zero
of a personal vertical.
That year I called it a well, but now I see—
it was the first vertical dimension
I ever measured, with a rope.
To lie flat on the earth is not to lie down,
but to spread the torso like a sounding board,
receive all horizontal echoes,
map the sliding slopes of all things.
The well's genealogy hides in the depths:
the deepest map is never drawn on the surface,
but etched into the ventricle walls.
Those wells brimming with blind water of memory
are the most fearsome:
their surfaces inverted, smooth as lies,
mirroring the neural dendrites on the face,
forking forever, disputing with the self.
Gaze, and you can pierce the mercury, straight to the well-bed—
receive with horizontal flesh, transmit with vertical soul.
Like the goosegrass in the stone crevice at the well's mouth,
spine arched, propping up its fate.
The summons of coordinates is a childhood coin,
never oxidizing.
Touch it: the feedback is a burn,
colder than zero, yet stubborn.
And the ultimate archetype of all wells,
is that well which does not exist.
To prospect is finally, to submit
proof of existence
to a well without edge.
It takes exclusively the spine of the prospector—
in the marrow, encrypted:
the well's complete gravitational parameters.
That is the proof of vertical entropy increase,
which I signed for, myself.