T. S. Eliot(1888-1965), "序曲" @ 蔗尾蜂房

[序曲]
--T. S. Eliot(1888-1965), 羅浩原譯

一、

冬之黃昏降臨在行人道
帶著股烤肉味
下午六點鐘
冒著煙的日子燒剩下的尾端
而現在一陣驟雨打包了
髒兮兮的食物殘渣
似的枯葉片片在你腳邊
以及從空地來的報紙
驟雨敲打著
損壞的百葉窗與煙囪
街道的角落
一匹孤獨驛馬噴著氣跺著蹄
隨後街燈亮了起來

二、

早晨走進意識
啤酒淡淡腐敗味的意識
來自鋪散著木屑被踐踏的街頭
連同所有泥濘的足
踏向早開的咖啡屋
伴隨著其他各種假扮化裝
又開始了
有人想起有這麼多手
所有拉起燻黃的遮陽棚的手
在成千裝潢佈置好的房間中

三、

你在床上用腳掀著毛毯
你平躺著,就這樣待著
你打著瞌睡,看著夜色漸漸揭露出
千種污穢的影像
你的靈魂正是由這些影像所合成
這些影像在天花板上閃爍不定
然後當整個世界恢復過來
光線從百葉窗縫鑽進來
你聽到一群麻雀在屋簷的排水槽間
你看著街道這時呈現的面貌
當街道自身幾乎還不知曉時的面貌
坐在床沿
你把捲髮紙從頭髮上捲下來
或是用沾著泥的手掌
緊握著發黃的腳底板

四、

他的靈魂緊緊拉過了那片
消失於街區後邊的天空，
他的靈魂或被川流不息的腳步踩著，
在下午四點、五點到六點鐘；
又短又粗的手指填著煙斗，
一張張晚報，還有深信
某些必然之事的眼睛，
一條暗下來的街道的本性
急於要去抓住這個世界。

縈繞著這些景象的幻想
感動了我，並揮之不去：
關於一種無窮的溫柔的
無窮的痛苦的事情的想法。

用你的手擦一下嘴，然後大笑；
世界旋轉著，像古代的婦人們
在四處的空地中揀著煤渣。

[Preludes]
--T. S. Eliot(1888-1965)

I

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-hourse steams and stamps
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back ,and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world come back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.