你不回頭
You Don’t Turn Back
舒婷
Shu Ting
你不回頭
你的旅行車(chē)駛進(jìn)太陽(yáng)里，太陽(yáng)五年不再回來(lái)。
You ride straight into the sun, the sun will not turn back for a full five years.
風(fēng)依然吹著(zhù)小步舞曲。
The wind keeps whistling a quickstep tune.
將落日的光環(huán)挽在肩上，越來(lái)越龐然沉重的影子領(lǐng)我，慢慢回家。
The halo of the setting sun curls around my shoulder, my shadow, growing huge and heavy, leads me slowly home.
經(jīng)過(guò)你家的小巷口，石條路還是那么濕漉漉，不時(shí)從黑糊糊的門(mén)洞傳出潑水聲。一輛走過(guò)很長(cháng)旅途的紅色自行車(chē)，斜倚在廣告牌前尋求休息，時(shí)髦女郎臉蛋臟兮兮地微笑著(zhù)。鍋鏟刺耳地刮著(zhù)鐵鍋，油煙和鹵鴨的香味順著(zhù)一盞濁燈彌漫開(kāi)來(lái)，夜攤上市了。
Past the entrance to your little lane, the stone paving is still so damp, the sound of splashing water from dismal cave like doorways. A red bicycle, which has traveled a long, long way, rests askew in front of a billboard, the cheeks of the fashionable girl grinning filthily. Spatulas scrape across woks; the smell of oily smoke and stewed duck spreads with the turbid light of a small lamp. The night market is open for business.
被遺棄的最后一抹余暉，還在猶豫，終于不勝悲哀地沿著(zhù)水銹和苔斑的高墻游走，沒(méi)有誰(shuí)挽留。
A last abandoned smear of fading daylight hesitates, but finally deeply drifts away with the high rust-and-lichen-mottled wall, and no one tries to make it stay.
三十五年來(lái)，你從蹣跚學(xué)步到青春期白跑鞋的舞步終于走出了這條狹窄的小巷，走向一片開(kāi)闊的港口。
For thirty-five years, from halting first steps to the youthful dancing gait of your white sneakers, you have been getting out of the wide mouth of this narrow little alley.
你真的不回頭嗎？
Will you really not turn back?
啊，你不回頭是因為小巷所洞悉的你的幻滅的往事你不愿帶走？
Ha, the reason you don’t turn back is because you don’t want to bring the vanished past of you the alley knows so well?
你不回頭
你不回頭是由于斑斕的霓虹燈旋開(kāi)一圈圈“倫巴”、“探戈”，你天性無(wú)法接納清一色的月光？
You don’t turn back on account of the neon lights rotating rhumba, tango, round after round, so you naturally can’t absorb plain moonlight?
你不回頭是由于危樓峰聳宛若一口口陷阱你寧可挺直脖子？
You don’t turn back because the high towers towering are just like gaping pitfalls, so you’d rather keep your neck straight?
你不回頭……
You don’t turn back…
你不回頭……
You don’t turn back…
黃昏的記憶真是擁擠呀。
Dusk memories crowd in.
你不回頭
四月，太平巖，我們在泉水邊。你銜著(zhù)一根草莖，斷斷續續哼著(zhù)一支《土撥鼠》，這是一支歡快、幽默的小曲子，它跟四月的陽(yáng)光、鳥(niǎo)鳴、水聲是那樣和諧，但從開(kāi)著(zhù)星星點(diǎn)點(diǎn)小黃花的草叢里望過(guò)去，你雙肘撐在地上，一雙又黑又大的眼睛盛滿(mǎn)痛苦、柔情和悵惘。
April. Taiping cliff. We’re beside a spring. You twirl a stalk of grass, idly humming “The Marmot,” it’s a happy, funny little tune, fitting so well April sunlight, birdsong, the sound of water. Only, looking across the yellow flowers open like little stars amidst the grass, you are propped up on your elbows with your eyes, big and dark, distracted, full of pain and tenderness.
我們都知道你，如腳邊澈清的泉水、倏忽的魚(yú)影，朗朗可見(jiàn)；我們無(wú)法知道你，藏匿于“黑箱”深處的凄楚，時(shí)時(shí)引吭為優(yōu)雅的男高音。
We both know you, like the clean spring water by our feet, the flitting shadows of the fish, clearly visible. We have no way to know you, the starkly clear, often elegantly throaty tenor hidden deep inside the “black box.”
因此我曾經(jīng)請求：“要哭泣你就哭泣吧，讓淚水流啊，流啊，默默地……”
For this I used to beg, “If you want to cry then cry, let your tears flow, tears flow, quietly…”
你不回頭
現在沒(méi)有人為我歌唱輕輕，即使滿(mǎn)眼是淚，繁華大街，車(chē)水馬龍，哪里尋一處林子、一片草地，在真摯與渠通的日光下失聲痛哭？
Now there is no one to sing lightly, lightly for me, even if my eyes are full of tears, in the bustling avenues, in the traffic, where to look for a glade, a grassy slope, to cry my eyes out under straightforward, earnest sunshine?
這個(gè)黃昏是多么陌生??！
How unfamiliar, this dusk!
（Carol R. Kaufmann 譯）
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