博尔赫斯诗一首

我用什么才能拥有你？

我给你贫瘠的街道，绝望的落日，

荒郊的冷月。

我给你一个人的苦楚，

他曾遥望孤月很久很久。

我给你我的祖先，死去的先人，

那些灵魂，活着的人用青铜纪念他们：

我父亲的父亲，死在布宜诺斯艾利斯的边陲

两颗子弹穿过他的肺——

他胡子拉渣，死去了

他的士兵用牛革裹起他的尸骸

我母亲的祖父

——只有二十四岁——在秘鲁

带领三百壮士，如今消失的马匹上

还骑着那些英魂。

我给你，我的书里洞悉的智慧，

我生命中的坚毅以及幽默。

我给你一个从不忠诚的人的

忠诚。

我给你，我小心保存的内心，

不知为何——这颗心难以言表，

不用梦想去交易，不因时间而改变，

不以物喜，不以己悲。

我给你，早在你出生之前  落日下黄玫瑰的记忆。

我给你关于你自己的解释，关于

你自己的理论，关于你的惊人的真相。

我能给你我的孤独，我的黑暗，我

心灵的饥渴，我在试图贿赂你，

用无常，用危险，用失败。

——博尔赫斯 一九三四年

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, th

moon of the jagged suburbs.

I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked

long and long at the lonely moon.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts

that living men have honoured in bronze:

my father’s father killed in the frontier of

Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,

bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in

the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather

–just twenty four– heading a charge of

three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on

vanished horses.

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,

whatever manliness or humour my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never

been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,

somehow –the central heart that deals not

in words, traffics not with dreams, and is

untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at

sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about

yourself, authentic and surprising news of

yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the

hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you

with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

- Jorge Luis Borges (1934)

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