After the funeral
葬礼之后
(In memory of Ann Jones)
（纪念安·琼斯）
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout,
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hooded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body).
But I, Ann's bard on a raised hearth, call all
The seas to service that her wood-tongued virtue
Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,
Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods
That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,
Bless her bent spirit with four, crossing birds.
Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue
With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull
Is carved from her in a room with a wet window
In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.
I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands
Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare
Whisper in a damp word, her wits drilled hollow,
Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;
And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.
These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental
Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm,
Storm me forever over her grave until
The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love
And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.
葬礼之后，骡子哞哞地赞美，
风扇动帆形的双耳，裹紧的蹄子
在厚实的坟基轻快地叩击
一根木桩，眼帘垂闭，牙齿又发黑，
眼里冒出唾液，袖口流成盐池，
早晨铁锹惊醒睡梦的铲击声，
惊动一个孤独的男孩，他在漆黑的
棺材里，撕开了喉咙，褪落枯叶，
最后的一击让一根白骨暴殓，
饱尝泪水盈盈的时光盛宴和紫蓟后
狐狸在房内暴食，羊齿草发臭，
我独自站立，为了心中这一份悼念，
在此饮泣的时刻陪伴死者，驼了背的安，
她遮裹的心泉，汇成干裂的威尔士旷野
四周的水坑，溺死每一颗太阳，
（尽管这对她而言只是一个怪异的形象，赞美
过于盲目；她的死原是一次宁静的水滴；
她并不希望我沉溺于她的善心及其名声
所引发的圣潮，她愿默默地安息，
不必为她破碎的身子祈祷）。
而我，安的吟游诗人，立于壁炉的高台之上，
呼唤所有的大海为她歌唱，她缄默的美德
像浮标铃一样在颂扬者的头上喋喋不休，
弯下围墙般的羊齿草和狡猾的树林
让她爱的歌声飘荡，穿过褐色的教堂，
四只穿梭的鸟祝福她俯服的灵魂。
她的肌肤牛奶一样温顺，而这高耸的雕像
挺起狂野的胸乳，扬起神圣而巨大的头骨，
塑自她的原型，雕成于那窗口透着潮气，
佝偻岁月里一间深切悼念的房室。
我知道她那双洁净、酸痛而谦卑的手
仍然紧握着她的信仰，潮湿的话语
倾诉如旧，她的心智渐渐干涸，
拳头般紧绷的脸抓紧圆形的痛苦而去；
安的雕像是位七旬的老人。
一双浸透云雾的大理石手，这些表达不朽而
精心打磨的声音、姿势和圣歌
永远在她的坟头震撼着我
直到狐狸暴食的肺腑抽搐，呼喊爱情，
昂首阔步的羊齿草在黑色的窗台播下种子。
作者简介
狄兰·托马斯（Dylan Thomas，1914年10月27日—1953年11月9日），威尔士诗人、作家。最著名的作品包括十九行诗《不要温和地走进那个良夜》。
