新  大  陆  诗  双  月 刊
2001年6月第64期

里尔克法语诗


　*编按：〈里尔克法语诗〉中译（郑建青译）经已于本刊上期发表，
此是郑氏据以中译的英译。

French poems of Rainer Maria Rilke
translated into English by 
Joseph Miletello 

	Boneyard

Is there no more to Victories
than broken wings?
And does love always let go of
its embraces?

Who can remember the dead springs
and the smiles?
And the wave that carries us-
it is toward the worst.

We would like nothing to happen
to stop us.
But death quickly enough cups
skull over skull.

	Flower Girl

They're not mine anymore, my hands,
they belong to the flowers I come to pick;
they press themselves, these flowers, to the pure
imagination,
to invent another being in these hands
that are no longer mine.  So,
obedient, I will stand beside him,
beside this being, curious about my ancient hands
and I won't leave him anymore, listening to him
with all my heart, so he doesn't say to me:
O, fickle one.

	Sketch

On the edge of the lake, in the blond air
under a willow whispering tomorrow,
canoes freshly painted red
like slices of melons
offer themselves
to the hungry season.

	The Wind

I see two eyes like two children
wandering in a forest.
They say: What eats us is the wind, the wind-
and I respond: I know.

I know a girl who cries, her lover
two years ago went away,
but she says very sweetly: It's the wind, the wind-
and I respond: I know.

Often in my chamber when I awaken
a voice seems to speak to me.
You! But the night murmurs: The wind-
and I cry in my bed: I know.