〈Champa花〉—譯泰戈爾詩(之七)

假如我變成一朵Champa.
只是為了好玩，
我長在花樹的高枝
笑著 搖曳在風裡
叫著 跳舞在新綠的葉叢
妳認得我麼？母親。

妳四處找我：「孩子，你在哪裡？」
我會噤不出聲 暗自竊笑，
狡黠的綻開我的花瓣，
伸出頭偷看妳忙著工作。

沐浴後妳肩上披著濡濕的頭髮，
走過Champa花樹下
來在妳祈禱的中庭
妳會吸進花的香，但意想不到
那香味是來自妳的孩子。

午飯後妳坐在窗邊
閱讀《羅摩耶那》
樹蔭落在妳的黑髮與雙膝
我便把我小小的身影投射在妳的書頁
恰恰在妳正誦讀的字句。

但妳猜得出
那正是妳孩子小小的身影？

入夜妳提燈走向牛棚
我將忽然跳落在妳的面前。
「頑皮的孩子，你去了哪裡？」
「不告訴妳，媽媽。」
我又變回妳的孩子
央求妳為我說個故事。

                             ～黃武雄 2012/08 譯自泰戈爾《新月集》

 

譯註：我於十九歲初讀泰戈爾此詩，印象深刻。雖然糜文開的中譯文稍嫌散漫，泰戈爾原詩的結尾亦顯得無力，尤其末句更屬多餘，但整首散文詩的意象鮮明生動，仍讓人難忘。當時曾畫一張圖，描繪著變成 champa 花的孩子投他小小的身影在他母親閱讀 Ramayana 的書頁，

恰恰在妳正誦讀的字句。

惜該畫已不知所終。又，譯詩對結尾的順序稍作變動，讓詩句較為緊湊。

 

原詩英文版（泰戈爾親譯）

THE CHAMPA FLOWER^*
Supposing I became a champa flower,
just for fun,
and grew on a branch high up that tree,
and shook in the wind with laughter
and danced upon the newly budded leaves,
would you know me, mother?

You would call,
"Baby, where are you?"
And I should laugh to myself
and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals
and watch you at your work.

When after your bath,
with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champa tree
to the little court where you say your prayers,
you would notice the scent of the flower,
but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal
you sat at the window reading Ramayana,
And the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on
To the page of your book, just where you were reading.

But would you guess that
it was the tiny shadow of your little child?

When in the evening
you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand,
I should suddenly drop on to the earth again
And be your own baby once more,
And beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother."
That's what you and I would say then.

^* fr. Rabindranath Tagore’s “THE CRESCENT MOON” (translated from the original Bengali by the author,New York, The Macmillan Company, 1913)

〈孩子天使〉—譯泰戈爾詩(之六)

他們喧鬧與吵架
他們猜疑與絕望
他們不知要爭論到幾時。

讓你的生命走入他們之中
猶如一道晨暉，我的孩子，
安定而純潔
讓他們由此歡欣而平靜。

他們因貪婪與嫉妒而變得殘酷
他們的語辭有如隱藏的刀刃
因嗜血而飢渴。

去吧，走入他們不快樂的心
我的孩子。讓你柔和的眼神
落在他們身上，彷彿黃昏寬恕的和平
覆沒白日的喧囂

讓他們看到你的臉，我的孩子
因此而看到萬物的意義
讓他們愛你，也彼此相愛。

來吧，在無垠的懷裡坐下
我的孩子，日出時敞開你的心
像果樹上滿滿的花朵
日落時低下你的頭
在靜默中修畢一日的虔誠。

                               ～黃武雄 2012/08 譯自泰戈爾《新月集》

 

THE CHILD-ANGEL^*
They clamour and fight,
They doubt and despair,
They know no end to their wranglings.

Let your life come amongst them
Like a flame of light, my child,
unflickering and pure,
And delight them into silence.

They are cruel in their greed
and their envy,
Their words are like hidden knives
thirsting for blood.

Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts,
My child, and let your gentle eyes
fall upon them like the forgiving peace
of the evening over the strife of the day.

Let them see your face, my child,
And thus know the meaning of all things;
Let them love you and thus love each other.

Come and take your seat
in the bosom of the limitless, my child.
At sunrise open and raise your heart
like a blossoming flower,
and at sunset bend your head
And in silence complete the worship of the day.

^* fr. Rabindranath Tagore’s “THE CRESCENT MOON” (translated from the original Bengali by the author,New York, The Macmillan Company, 1913)

〈禮物〉—譯泰戈爾詩(之五)

我要給你禮物，
我的孩子，
因為我們都在
漂泊  於世界之河。

我們的生命將紛披離散，
我們的愛  將被遺忘，
但我不致愚蠢到  以為
禮物能夠收買你的心。

年輕是你的生命，
你的路途遙遠。
在一個乾旱的日子
你一口飲盡 我們給過你的愛
而轉身離去。

你有你的遊戲
與你的玩伴。
那有什麼不好，如果你
無暇想念我們。

是的，我們老了，
有足夠的閒暇
數計過往的日子，
在我們心裡 撫愛那些
從我們的手中  永遠消逝的東西。

河水一路吟唱  向前奔流，
沖潰一切障礙。
但山岳駐足
靜靜咀嚼記憶  用愛
遙送她遠行。

                            ～黃武雄 2012/08 譯自泰戈爾《新月集》



原詩英文版（泰戈爾親譯）

THE GIFT*

I want to give you something,
my child, for we are drifting
in the stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart,
and our love forgotten.
But I am not so foolish as to hope
That I could buy your heart with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long,
and you drink the love we bring you
at one draught and turn and
run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates.
What harm is there if you have no time or
thought for us.
We, indeed, have leisure enough
in old age to count the days that are past,
to cherish in our hearts what our hands
have lost forever.

The river runs swift with a song,
breaking through all barriers.
But the mountain stays and remembers,
and follows her with his love.

* fr. Rabindranath Tagore’s “THE CRESCENT MOON” (translated from the original Bengali by the author, New York, The Macmillan Company, 1913)