（又一次体会到，诗的语言真是强大，诗能够传达的感觉真是不可思议。请看迈基马德描写他爷爷的去世。——译者，2017/04）
那一头熊
艾米特·迈基马德（黄未原译）
不愿见光的语言
从洞口偶然冒出
又吞回
消失在记忆的莫高窟里
膝上的曾孙女儿
在91年漫长的隧道尽头玩耍
阳光照亮那里的开阔地
助听器也不能打破的寂静
就像一枚硬币
掉落井底
他的眼光和我们相遇
像一只昏昏欲睡的熊
正把又一块石头放好
堵住通向自己的进口
掩上不能自动关闭的感觉之门
当我说我爷爷去年离世了
我是说他隐退了
退回到洞穴里黑郁的斜坡之下
隐没在孕育地河的深潭之中
The bear
Amit Majmudar
A word peeked sometimes from the cave mouth
only to shuffle back, swallowed, sky-shy,
lost in his memory's russet Lascaux?.
The great-granddaughter we set on his lap
played in the far-off, sunlit opening
of a tunnel ninety-one years long,
as noiseless, in spite of the hearing aid,
as a penny striking the floor of a well.
His eyes met ours like a groggy bear's
as he pulled another stone into place
to seal the entrance to himself,
to close the senses that would not close themselves.
When I say my grandfather passed on
last year, what I mean is, he passed inward,
down the dark slope of a cave, drawn
by the womb rush of a river underground.
(Poetry Daily, 2017-03-30)
