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| 图伯特的鹤。（拍摄者及拍摄时间不详） |
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| Ian Boyden |
唯色按：美国艺术家Ian Boyden（伊安·博德恩）的这首长诗，与我有某种相契投合，而各自所写的实际上有内在关联的第三首诗。它们包括：Ian Boyden——"Frog Song--Dedicated to everyone who has lost their freedom in the pursuit of freedom"、 "Spider Field"、"The Cranes--for Jamyang Norbu"；唯色——《故乡的火焰》、《尧西达孜的蜘蛛》、《白鹤》。为此感谢伊安。并感谢他将我的这三首诗都译成了英文。
Ian Boyden的这首长诗由孙蓉译成了中文，使我得以领略其美意、诗意、深意，为此感谢译者。
Ian Boyden把这首长诗献给了图伯特作家Jamyang Norbu（嘉央诺布）先生。应该与这篇文章有关，当然不止于此："High Sanctuary: WILDLIFE AND NATURE CONSERVANCY IN OLD TIBET"(《高原圣殿：图伯特往昔的野生动物和自然保育》）。其中写到：“我从我母亲与其他年纪更大的博巴那里听来的故事与轶事中，常常提到图伯特的鸟，特别是仙鹤（tung-tung）、胡兀鹫（jha-goe）以及杜鹃鸟（khuyu）。他们有时候会提到一个特别供养鸟的神龛，就在雅砻河谷的源头之处，雅鲁藏布之南，泽当的附近。”“然而在五九年前的图伯特，在藏历的三月十五日（五月上旬），会在此庙里举行一个特殊的仪式与庆典，好欢迎众鸟之王的杜鹃鸟，以及其他过境喜玛拉雅北迁的候鸟。拉萨会派出两位官员来此地迎接鸟王。在庙宇旁边的公园（林卡）里，会放一张很大的毡毯与皮垫，上面撒着各类的谷物－－青稞、小麦、豌豆等等。还会架设桌子，上面放着酥油茶、青稞酒（chang）、藏式甜饼干（khapsay，卡赛）、干果、坚果等等，再点两盏称之为库玉曲美（khuyu chome）即杜鹃供灯的特别酥油灯……”
在转贴《鹤》的中译与英文之前，附上Ian Boyden给我的一段留言：
“其实，整首诗好像多年来藏在我的心脏。我觉得很玄秘。如同伏藏存在于环境里，它也存在于心里。我相信整个世界存在于这两个地方。内在的心不是镜子。外在的世界也不是镜子。一个不复制另一个。它们同时存在。在一个地方发生了什么，也发生在另一个地方。当然有细微差别。我们的诗歌语言像一种吊桥联合了这两个地带。天上有鹊桥，我们的友谊有鹤桥！
我开始写这首诗，我写了一首诗。我自己说这是甲萨拉康。然后我把这首诗打破了。一个字一个字一个字。像是一堆石头，把诗变成废墟。……过了几个星期，我觉得我要使用原来的诗开始造成新的诗。不是修改第一首，不是要重建原始的寺庙。让这首新的诗从原始的诗的废墟长出来。《鹤》的土壤是另一首诗的废墟。
要感谢你，是我们的友谊让诗脱化出来。我想想2017年，我觉得今年我做的最重要的事情，就是写这三首诗，而我还翻译了你的几首诗。这些成就对我来说最重要。是活着的一个原因！”
鹤
——献给嘉央诺布
1. 眼睛
我看见鹤的羽翼
从一隻眼睛的曼陀罗中拍翅
我曾握着一张男人的照片
他射杀了飞到图伯特的
最后一只白鹤
他抓住白鹤的喉颈
像抓住时间流逝的咽喉
空洞地耀武扬威
白鹤活着，它握着问题的百万年
白鹤死去，垂吊着，像一个可怕的答案
白鹤的眼睛变成乳白
冰封的一汪湖泊
想象俯瞰褶皱的地球——
蓝色绿色，灰色白色
每一汪湖面是一位神的眼睛
每一位神的眼睛是一面镜子
你看见你自己的飞行
飞过神的眼睛的天空
班丹拉姆
她的身体一汪湖，她的皮肤蓝如水
他们询问她一个预言
她回答：
看你自己的双手
他们再问，她说：
山的影子，你读到什么？
第三次问她时
她举起一把形同一隻鹤的锤子：
有谁能砸碎时漏？
他们说她将每一个伤口变成一隻眼睛
通过它们，我们可以看见世界
透过这样的瞳孔
我们或许能理解
我们自己的单独的幻觉
这是她的赠予
我们的伤口的眼睛
他人看似一汪湖，看似一面镜
他们看见自己的飞行
在我们视觉的天空
风能模糊但不能抹去
冰以一吻变成乳白
温暖的春天等待着
他们说她被烈焰环绕
像眼睛的虹膜
2. 鹤影
鹤群在石头间踏步
不是支干如辫的大河圆石
不是上游山谷冰蚀的石头
是被铁锤击碎的石头
被火碎裂的石头
烧毁的地面，变黑的地基
远处天空疑问的白
山的影子像法槌垂落
涂黑弧形的脖颈
召唤它们成石墨
召唤它们成黑碳
山的影子像法槌垂落
共谋无效，它垂落像它一直在垂落
一座舞台或许有人能读到自己的心
夜色笼罩的舞台
一隻鹤，伫立像一个问号
举起一块衬着阴影之重的石头
碎石的一个拳头，说：
我的家人，
这块碎石和我会照看你
石头掉落下来
会砸碎你睡眠的阴影
我的家人
像星星一样
站在我们曾经饮食
现在被焚毁的地方
它们像星星闪烁，独立悲痛的湖泊
将它们的头埋在翅膀的狱中
少有人知第二个阴影在第一个之中
月亮撒下第二个阴影
精细锤成的银练
移向那隻勇敢的鸟
更少人知其他的阴影也一样
每颗星旋转向山脉
撒下比一根根睫毛锻造的遗忘
更薄的阴影
3. 曼陀罗
读者
如果你有一个问题塞在内心
那么碎石穿过你的影子坠落
它是一座古老的庙宇
甲萨拉康的一块碎片
一座图伯特古老的圣殿
闻名于它是鸟类休息的地方
它沿着雅鲁山谷西口的
藏布那长长的岸边
建造于一千多年前
那里一条鸟类的河流倾泻山脉
泻落平原，带着饥渴的透明
席卷稀薄空气的阴影
一千个春天，僧侣们
在庙宇的地面画曼陀罗——
用小麦、青稞、黑麦、燕麦
粟米和豌豆描绘宇宙
盛宴呈现像一隻望着天空的巨大眼睛
他们知道图画同时完成与未完成
像时漏的细腰等待着沙粒
一千多年，万鸟入画飞过
仿佛它们是时间本身
起初杜鹃鸟，接着噪鹛
最后是鹤
鸟儿变成曼陀罗
和曼陀罗的消逝
飞来前它们就是曼陀罗
飞走后
它们也一直是永远是曼陀罗
碎石穿过你自己影子的时漏坠落
像一个梦降落，落进你自己的觉醒
风模糊着记忆的湖面
碎石砸伤了湖面吗？
这个伤口会变成眼睛吗？
4. 寻鹤
我是孩童时
母亲带我
去马卢尔河岸
寻鹤
沙丘鹤，命名于母亲的生长之地
双双沙丘鹤
舞过我们的视网膜
它们是星光
我们会闭上眼睛听
渐渐消失成一种超越时间的语言
进入石头变成水的歌声
我的母亲是孩童时
她的父亲带着她
去普拉特河多沙的河岸
寻鹤
他们会闭上眼睛听
惊奇他们的心
怎样变成问号
父亲女儿
母亲儿子
淙淙
我的祖母，母亲的母亲，离世时
我和母亲坐在脆弱的光中
我看入她的眼睛时
我看见什么
滚动在眼泪的干草里
5. 入侵
军队的暴力
被疑问的缺失衡量
承托过谷物宇宙的地面
变成碎石无墙的监狱
1959年春
外来的时漏翻转这块土地
外表覆盖词语：解放、繁荣、统一……
但词语空洞
穿过玻璃的腰际所坠落的
仅仅消失进阴影里
阴影横扫风景
阴影降落，扫荡爱慕月光的语言
包含声音的语言：
淙淙
鹤的召唤声
鹤自身的名字
今天，白鹤完全绝迹
黑颈鹤——仅余数千只
最后一隻鹤死亡时，我们的世界没有希望
征服与被征服同时败北
如果有人知道
喂食鸟儿的僧侣们发生了什么
他们从不开口
他们流亡了吗？
他们同庙宇一起焚烧了吗？
他们在石头下压碎了吗？
军队的暴力
被答案的丧失衡量
谁记得甲萨拉康
在哪里？
淙淙
6. 孪生
鸟类休息地上面的斜坡
有两个雕刻的洞窟
一个坐着魔刹一个坐着佛陀
尽管一个极易成为另一个
魔刹坐在洞窟的入口
她石头的身体被钉子刺破
每个钉子一座庙宇，每个钉孔一隻眼睛
她的身体是一张绿松石的地图
在她左乳的庙宇下面
舞蹈着荟萃的白色星辰
在她的梦中，一条隧道开在她的心脏
所有的鸟儿穿越飞过
她看见隧道像一条河流
此岸，有人在锻铁
彼岸，弥漫着烟雾
我们不能阻止鸟儿飞翔
穿越我们的雕刻
淙淙
佛陀坐在他的洞窟入口
关注着疑问
他注视着河流通向桑耶寺
这座古老的僧院
佛陀像鹤一样起舞
降服众魔的地方
之后在鸟的迁徙中
藏起伏藏，他教导的宝藏
他是没有倒影的一片湖泊
他的身体没有伤疤
万物的光子经过他
从最遥远的星辰到
汇聚在下面山谷的亮光
理解因果，看你在哪里
衡量未来，看你的双手
在他的梦中，他变成一隻兀鹫的伴侣
醒来，一根黑色的羽毛
一个盲点搁在他的枕上
7. 石头唱歌
那单独的圆点是一块碎石
握着地球的问题
独自的碎石搁在一口井的底端
所有的问题充满他们的水桶
无眼、耳、鼻、舌身意
但以肉身和重量
两者觉悟这个世界和记忆
当鹤举起这块碎石，变化发生
没有嘴的石头，开始唱歌：
淙淙
我要活着——我是一只眼睛
我有活着的理由——我是一座山
我是一块石头
独自的圆点是一枚蛋
问号用泥巴将自己覆盖
荒芜直到变成贫瘠的土地
他们说蛋壳不是被鸟嘴啄裂
而是被问题内核的心跳碎裂
独自的圆点是一座宫殿
问号行走在人群中
它像人一样双腿行走
它欣赏精美的石头工艺
宽阔，有坡度的走廊
问号被喂养得太长久
忘记了飞翔
问号被喂养得太长久
再也不想离开
问号开始脱羽
直到整座宫殿变白
静默像一个鸟巢——
枕头中的枕头
问号走到最高的阳台
天空如毯
它靠着它的赠予躺下
一根黑色羽毛搁在白色的枕上
听着世界的哭声：
淙淙
早晨问号消失
它从同一个阳台消失
那里仓央嘉措留意着白鹤
在流沙河的沙滩上起舞，写到：
请借双翅，飞不多远……
那单独的圆点是北极星
旋转的有我们餐饮的盘子
8. 淙淙
我请你去户外
在石头之间躺下
让脊背卧在重力安静的心脏
感受山的影子涌向你
感受月光的影子星光的影子
记住你正握着破碎的什么
有什么在干草间沙沙作响
沙沙响的是曼陀罗的一部分
一隻撒播种子的手，一隻挥动锤子的手
风、翼、田鼠
也许是悲痛。一隻幼鹤
衡量着军队的暴力：
淙淙
也许是你第一次学写字时
用铅笔写在纸上的一个点
独自的圆点是你自己的眼睛
你会永远是一个问题
你会永远是一汪湖泊
记住你正握着破碎的什么
记住让石头掉落下来没有关系
你的手仅仅只是
石头存在的时漏的细腰
你现在的状态怎么样？
也许一群鹤将飞越你头顶
也许其中一隻鹤会向下看
看见它们正穿越
飞过你的眼睛
你的双手，你记住的是什么？
Ian Boyden
2017-11-15
圣胡安岛
孙蓉翻译
The Cranes
for Jamyang Norbu
1. The Eye
I saw the wings of the crane
released from the mandala of an eye.
I once held a photograph in my hand
of the man who shot the last white crane
to ever set foot in Tibet.
He held the bird by the throat
the hollow triumph of choking the flow of time.
Living it held a hundred million years of questions.
Dead it hung as a horrible answer.
The crane’s eye turned to milk,
a lake blinded by ice.
Imagine looking down upon the folded Earth—
blue and green, gray and white.
The surface of every lake is the eye of a
god.
The eye of each god is a mirror
where you see your own flight
through the sky of the god’s eye.
Palden Lhamo.
Her body a lake, her skin blue as water.
They asked her for a vision.
She answered:
Look at your hands.
They asked her again, she said:
What do you read in the mountain’s shadow?
And when they asked her a third time,
she held up a hammer shaped like a crane:
Can any of you smash the hourglass?
They say she turns every wound into an eye,
that we may see the world through them.
And through such an oculus,
we might come to understand
the illusion of our own separateness.
This is her gift.
The wounds we see through,
others see as a lake, others see as a mirror
in which they see their own flight
in the sky of our own seeing.
Wind blurs but cannot erase.
Ice turns it to milk with a kiss.
The warm spring waits.
They say she is ringed by fire,
like the iris of the eye.
2. Crane Shadow
The cranes step among stones.
Not the rounded stones of a braided river,
nor the ice-worn stones of the upper valleys,
but stones broken by iron hammers
and spalled by fire.
The burned ground, the blackened foundation,
white with questions from a distant sky.
The mountain’s shadow falls as a gavel
darkening the curved necks,
calling them to graphite,
calling them to carbon.
The mountain’s shadow falls as a gavel
void of complicity, it falls as it has always
fallen,
a stage upon which one might read one’s own
heart.
That night upon the stage,
a single crane, standing like a question mark,
lifted a stone against the shadow’s weight,
a fist of broken stone, and spoke:
My family,
this stone and I will
watch over you.
Should the stone drop,
it will shatter the shadow of your sleep.
My family,
stand now like stars
in this burned field where we once ate.
And they stood like stars in a lake of grief,
and buried their heads in the prison of their
wings.
Few know of the second shadow within the first.
But the moon casts a second shadow,
a finely hammered sheet of silver
and it, too, shifted toward that brave bird.
And even fewer know of other shadows still.
Every star that swirls toward the mountain
casts its own shadow thinner than the oblivion
forged by our own eyelashes.
3. Mandala
Reader,
if you have a question tucked within you
then the stone is falling through your
shadow.
It’s a fragment of an ancient temple,
the Chyasa Iha-khang,
an ancient sanctuary of Tibet,
known as the resting place of the birds.
It was built a thousand years ago
along the banks of the Tsangpo river,
west of the mouth of the Yarlung valley,
where a river of birds pours over the mountains,
falling to the plains, almost translucent with
hunger,
shadows rolled of thin air.
For a thousand springs, monks drew
a mandala of grain upon the temple grounds—
the universe drawn with wheat and highland barley,
rye and oats, millet and peas.
A feast laid out as a giant eye looking at the
sky.
They knew the drawing was both complete and
incomplete,
like the waist of an hourglass awaiting sand.
And for a thousand years, the birds
poured through this drawing as though they were
time itself.
First the cuckoo and then the laughing thrush
and at last the cranes.
The birds became the mandala
as well as the mandala’s erasure.
It is also true they were the mandala before
they arrived,
and they continued being so forever
after they flew away.
The stone falls through the hourglass of your
own shadow.
It falls as a dream falls into your own awakening
where the wind blurs the surface of the lake of memory.
Does the stone wound the surface of the lake?
Can such a wound become an eye?
4. Looking for Cranes
When I was a child,
my mother would take me
to the banks of the Malheur river
to look for cranes:
Sandhill cranes, named for the earth where she
grew up.
Pairs of cranes danced across our retinas
as the starlight they are.
We would close our eyes and listen,
disappearing into a language beyond time,
into the song of stone turned to water.
And when my mother was a child,
her father would take her
to the sandy banks of the Platte river
to look for cranes.
They would close their eyes and listen,
marveling at how their hearts
became question marks.
Father
to daughter.
Mother
to son.
trung trung
When my grandmother, my mother’s mother, died,
I sat with my mother in the vulnerable light.
And when I looked in her eyes,
I saw something move there
in the dry grass of tears.
5. Invasion
The violence of an army
is measured by its lack of questions.
The ground that held a universe of grain
became a wall-less prison of broken stone.
It is the spring of 1959.
A foreign hourglass has turned over upon the
land.
Its skin is covered with words: liberation, prosperity, unity…
But the words are empty.
Much of what fell through the waist of this
glass
simply disappeared into shadows.
The shadows that swept across the landscape
fell across a language that loved moonlight,
a language that held this sound:
trung trung
the calling of the crane
and the name of the crane itself.
Today, the white crane is completely gone,
of the black-necked crane—just a few thousand
remain.
When the last crane dies, there is no hope for our
world.
Both the vanquisher and vanquished will have
lost.
If someone knows what happened
to the monks who fed the birds,
they have never spoken.
Did they walk into exile?
Did they burn with the temple?
Were they crushed under stone?
The violence of an army
is measured by the loss of answers.
Who remembers the location
of the Chyasa Iha-khang?
trung trung
6. Twins
There are two caves carved in the slopes above
the resting place of the birds.
In one sits an ogre and in the other a Buddha,
though one could easily be the other.
The ogre sits at the entrance of her cave
Her body of stone pierced by nails,
each nail a temple, each nail hole an eye.
Her body is a map of turquoise
below the temple of her left breast
dances a constellation of white stars.
In her dream, a tunnel opened in her heart
and all the birds flew through it.
She saw the tunnel had shores like an river.
On one shore, she saw them forging iron,
on another, it was filled with smoke.
We cannot keep the birds
from flying through what we carve.
trung trung
The Buddha sits at the entrance of his cave
and watches the questions.
He looks over the river to Samye,
the ancient monastery where he subdued
the demons by dancing like a crane.
And then later hid a terma, a treasure of his teaching,
in the birds’ migration.
He is a lake of no reflections.
There is not a scar upon his body.
Photons of every single thing pass through him,
from the most distant stars to the light
gathering in the valley below.
To understand causation, look at where you are.
To measure the future, look at your own hands.
In his dream, he became the consort of a vulture
and woke to a single black feather
a blind spot resting on his pillow.
7. The Stone Sings
That solitary dot is a stone
that holds the question to earth.
That solitary stone rests at the bottom of a
well
where all the questions fill their buckets.
It has no eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth.
But in its flesh and weight
it has both means to make sense of this world
and memory.
But as the crane held this stone something
happened.
The stone, which had no mouth, began to sing:
trung trung
I wish to live—I am an eye.
I have reason to live—I am a mountain.
I am a stone.
That solitary dot is an egg.
The question mark covers itself with mud
and broken grass until becomes the barren field.
They say the shell is broken
not by the beak but by the heartbeat
of the question inside.
That solitary dot is a palace
where the question mark walks among humans.
It walks on two legs like a human.
It admires the fine stonework,
the wide, sloping corridors.
It has been fed long enough
that it has forgotten flight.
It has been fed long enough
that it never wants to leave.
The question mark begins to molt,
until the entire palace is white
and quiet as a nest—
a pillow of pillows.
It walks to the highest balcony
where the sky is a blanket.
It lies down upon its gift
a black feather resting on a white pillow
and listens to the world’s crying:
trung trung
In the morning the question mark vanished.
It vanished from the same balcony
where Gyatso looked out upon the cranes
dancing on the sand of the Je Rak river and wrote:
lend
me your wings, I won’t fly far…
That solitary dot is the north star.
What revolves there is the plate from which we
eat.
8. Trung Trung
I ask you to go outside
and lie down among the stones.
Lie on your back in the calm heart of gravity,
and feel the mountain’s shadow rushing toward
you.
Feel the moonlight shadow and starlight shadows.
Remember you are holding something broken.
Something rustles the dry grass.
What rustles is part of the mandala itself.
A hand scattering seed, a hand swinging a
hammer.
The wind, a wing, a field mouse.
It might be grief. A baby crane
measuring the violence of an army:
trung trung
It might be a single dot you pushed
into paper with a pencil when you first learned
to write.
That solitary dot is your own eye.
You will forever be a question.
You will forever be a lake.
Remember you are holding something broken.
Remember it is alright to let go of the stone.
You hand is simply one waist
in the hourglass of the stone’s existence.
What is your present condition?
Perhaps a flock of cranes will fly over you.
And perhaps one of them will look down
and see themselves flying through
the lake of your own eye.
What do you remember of your own hands?
Ian Boyden
November 15, 2017
San Juan Island
延伸阅读：
吃了王啸用格尔木的羊肉做的新疆抓饭，实在美味。一起分享的还有王啸的弟弟和一个来过拉萨两次的西安小伙。慢慢地，天色黑了，窗外的路灯照亮飘拂着镶布的八廊学旅馆，一辆辆出租车飞驰而过。对了，王啸的念酒吧没有圣诞老人的白胡子。显得昏暗的黄色灯光使得兑有果汁的伏特加端上了铺着羊毛织物的木桌。慢慢的，人多起来了，都是一眼就能看出的汉地游客。不，说他们是游客他们肯定不乐意，只有那些跟着导游手中的小旗帜转的人才叫游客，他们岂能与之相提并论？那么，说他们是背包客？还是网上称呼的“驴”？可是在这些人当中，我听说有好多个都是年年来拉萨或者已经住了很久，有一个相貌很平凡的男子干脆在一家公司上班了。那么，说他们是“藏飘”吧，这也是从网上看见的对这些西藏发烧友的称呼。可是王啸不乐意了。他激烈地反对，坚决要把自己放在什么什么“飘”之外，他认为所谓的“飘”指的是没有生活的方向，而他自己是为了找到生活的地方才来到拉萨，所以他在拉萨并不“飘”，恰恰是“飘”的相反。
西安小伙不同意，他滔滔不绝地说了很多，可是有一个戴尼泊尔毛线帽的北京小伙弹着王啸的吉他在唱歌，把他的声音盖下去了。我只听清他复述的一句话，据说是十八世纪的一位神父还是哲学家所说的——“我们所毕生追求的，正是他们与生俱来的。”王啸起身，重又放那张流浪艺人在拉萨街头弹唱的唱片，激动地说，是啊，我毕生追求的，正是他们与生俱来的，听听，没有任何障碍，没有任何障碍，我就是想过一种没有障碍的生活！
