我所知道的是一道通向黑暗的门。
外面，生锈的旧轴和铁环;
里面，铁锤碰击锻砧发出的短高音，
无法预料的扇形火花
或新蹄鞋在水中变硬时的嘶嘶声。
锻砧该放在中央某处，
一端像独角兽的犄角，四方形，
固定不动：一座祭台
在那里，他在叮当声中挥臂锻造成型。
有时腰围皮革裙，鼻有茸毛，
他倚门探身，在车流穿行的路上
回想马蹄的得得声;
然后咕哝着走进去，重击轻弹
打出真铁，鼓动风箱。
The Forge
by Seamus Heaney
All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
[ 本帖最后由 闽中林木 于 2015-4-9 06:04 编辑 ]
