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| Photograph by Charlotta Smeds, Perugia, Italy, 2021. |
孔雀的声音
茨仁唯色
半夜的外面依然很喧闹
大卡车载货驶过的噪音
闯入21层高楼的窗户
诉说生活的辛苦
但我充耳不闻
急切地刷屏阿富汗的新闻
在更强烈的噪音中
痛恨着塔利班——
无数的，远远近近的塔利班
一个奇特的鸣叫声传来
清亮，婉转，略带沙哑
叫了一遍又一遍
像是催促我的听见
“啊！孔雀的声音？”
我惊讶地喊道，可是
我为何觉得是孔雀在叫？
迟疑了一下
我还是冲到窗前
以为会看见楼下的新华北路
有只孔雀正在开屏，唱歌
……当然不可能有这个奇观
但也突然空空荡荡
2021-8-16凌晨，于北京
The Peacock’s Cry
Midnight and it’s still noisy.
Rumbles of freight trucks
crash through the top windows
of this 21-story high-rise
to recount life’s hardships.
I turn a deaf ear,
anxiously swiping the screen to read news of Afghanistan.
I loathe the Taliban,
the countless Talibans, near and far.
An unusual bird song wings in—
clear, poised, slightly strident—
it calls, then calls once again,
urging me to listen.
“Ah! Is this a peacock’s cry?”
I call out in surprise. But,
why would I think it’s a peacock’s cry?
I hesitate,
but run to the window anyway,
thinking I would see Xinhua North Road below,
and there, spreading its feathers, is a peacock, singing.
Of course, such a wondrous sight is impossible
and yet, everything is suddenly a complete vacuum.
—Woeser, Early morning, Beijing, August 16, 2021
(translated by Ian Boyden)
