We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.
Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.
We dream; we don’t remember.
Machine of the family: dark fur, forests of the mother’s body.
Machine of the mother: white city inside her.
And before that: earth and water.
Moss between rocks, pieces of leaves and grass.
And before, cells in a great darkness.
And before that, the veiled world.
This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.
I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:
Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?
《母与子》
原作：Louise Glück【美】，2020年诺贝尔文学奖得主
译：枫居散人
我们都是梦想者；我们不知自己是谁。
某种机器造出了我们；这个世界的机器，紧密的家庭。
然后回到这世界，被软鞭磨砺。
我们梦想；我们不记忆。
家庭的机器：深暗的皮毛，母亲身体的森林。
母亲的机器：她体内的白城。
在那之前：土壤和水。
岩石间的苔藓，叶和草。
在那之前，巨大黑暗中的细胞。
在那之前，被遮掩的世界。
这就是你为什么被生下来：让我沉默。
我父母的细胞，现在轮到你
成为中枢，成为杰作。
我即兴发挥；我从不记忆。
现在轮到你被驱使；
你是那个想知道的人：
为什么我受难？为什么我无知？
巨大黑暗中的细胞。某种机器造出了我们；
现在轮到你来应对它，回去问
我为何而来？我为何而来？