The Dream--Tagore / 梦－－泰戈尔

The Dream

TAGORE

Far, far away, at the dream-city of Ujjain, by the bank of the river Sipra, I go searching for my beloved of a former birth:

Her face pollen-powdered, a pink lotus in her hand, white lotus buds stuck behind her ears, and crimson amaranth in her hair; her lithe body enwrapped in a crimson sari, her anklets tinkle shyly.

On a day of Spring-time, I tread far and wide along a half-remembered way.

In the great temple of Mahakal, resonant bells toll at the hour of evening worship.

The market place is deserted, and one can see the beams of the setting sun beyond the high darkling roofs.

Here's my beloved's house at the end of the winding, narrow and lonesome road.

On the doors are painted emblems of conch and wheels and on both side stand lovingly-nursed neepa plantlets.

In the alcove above the marble gateway sites the proud solemn statue of a lion.

Now hie home the pigeons of my love; already the peacock is asleep on his golden perch.

Now down the stairs walks my Malabika, lamp in hand, pauses on the last step, a goddess graceful as the evening star.

The fragrance of the saffron-powder on her body and the incense of her hair envelop me like a passionate sigh.

Through a gap in her loosening vestment shows the design of sandal-paste painted on her left breast.

And she stands like an image in the silence of the evening, the hum of the city now stilled.

At sight of me, my love slowly lowers the lamp on the threshold and stands before me, places her hand on mine and her sad eyes ask, 'In good cheer, my friend?'

My eyes on her, I try to reply but have no words. We have forgotten the language we once spoke, we have forgotten even our names. We muse and muse but can remember nothing. We gaze at each other and tears stream down our eyes.

Under the gate way trees we stand pensive. And then, I know not how her gentle hand nestles within mine like a homing bird yearning for its nest; her head gently lowers itself on my breast like a drooping lotus; breath mingles with breath in passionate silence.

Dark night obliterates the city of Ujjain, a gust of wind puts out the lamp on the threshold, and at the temple of Shiva on the bank of the Sipra, the evening worship comes to an end.

May, 1897
Swapna from "Kalpana"

梦

泰戈尔

中文翻译：思阁莫默

那遥远的城市邬阁衍那，Shipra河的河畔，我前往，寻觅我的爱人的前生：

脸颊打着花粉，她手里轻攥粉红的莲花，乳白的莲芽镶在耳后，额前发根处抹着一道赤红；

细软的身子，紧裹在鲜红的纱丽里，她的脚链子，害羞地玎玲作响。

在初春里的某一天，我从远方大步走来，行走在这条相熟又相生的路上。

Mahakal神庙里，回荡着祭祀的晚钟。

集市上空无人影，高处暗黑的屋梁外，留有一抹残阳的余霞。

看到她的家了，在狭窄、起风的孤独的路的尽头。

门上画着贝壳与车轮的图案，门的两边，立着精心栽培的neepa树小苗。

大理石路面的上方，庄严傲慢的石狮子坐镇在凉亭里。

加快步子吧，连孔雀都已经在他金色的栖息处睡着了。

我的爱人Malabika手里捧着油灯盏，缓缓地从石阶上走下，停驻在最后一级台阶上，黄昏的星般高雅的女神。

她的身子，散发着藏红花粉的香气，和着厚发的熏香，将我萦绕包裹，宛如多情的叹息。

松垮的圣衣下，左胸上由檀香粉涂抹出的彩绘从她的衣间布隙显露一二。

她站立在黄昏的寂静里，像一幅画作，喧嚣的城市瞬间凝滞。

在我的注目下，我的爱人慢慢地将油灯盏置放于门槛上，站到我的跟前，她的手放在我的手上，忧伤的眼睛问，“我的朋友，你好吗？”

我望着她，欲答却无言。我们已经忘记了曾经使用的语言，甚至忘记了我们的姓名。我们使劲地回忆，却什么都想不起来。我们凝视着对方，泪如雨下。

门前大树下，我们伤怀地站着。不知不觉中，她的小手如蜂鸟向往自己的巢穴般在我的手心里休憩；如低垂着脸的莲花，她依偎在我的胸前；呼吸与呼吸交织，于温情的静默里。

暗夜将邬阁衍那城彻底摧毁，门槛上的油灯盏被阵风吹熄，Shipra河畔上的湿婆神庙里，晚祭悄然终止。

1897年5月
诗集 Swapna 自《Kalpana》