L'estel ardent, BY OUYANG JIANGHE

The Burning Kite  (L'estel ardent)

BY OUYANG JIANGHE

飞起来，就是置身至福。
但飞起来的并非都是乌儿。

为为什么非得是鸟儿不可？
我对于像鸟儿一样被赞颂感到厌倦了。

不过飞起来该多好。
身体交给风暴仿佛风暴可以避开，

仿佛身体是纸的，夹层的，
可以随手扔进废纸篓，

也可以和另一个身体对折起来，
获得天上的永久地址。

鸟儿从火焰递了过来，
按照风暴的原样保留在狂想中。

无论这是迎着剪刀飞行的火焰，
可以印刷和张贴的火焰；

还是铁丝缠身的斑竹的乌儿，
被处以火刑的纸的鸟儿——

你首先是灰烬，
然后仍旧是灰烬。

将鸟与火焰调和起来的
是怎样一个身体？

你用一根细线把它拉在手上。
急迫的消防队从各处赶来。

但这壮烈的大火是天上的事情，
无法从飞翔带回大地。

你知道，飞翔在高高无人的天空，
那种迷醉，那种从未有过的迷醉.

TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY AUSTIN WOERNER:

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly.

But to rise on air does not make you a bird.

(Quina cosa seria si tots poguéssim volar .
Però en elevar-se en l'aire no ens convertíssim en  ocells )

I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles.

It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke.

The things we puke: flights of stairs,

a skyscraper soaring from the gut,

the bills blow by on the April breeze

followed by flurries of razor blades in May.

It’s true, a free life is made of words.

You can crumple it, toss it in the trash,

or fold it between the bodies of angels, attaining

a permanent address in the sky.

The postman hands you your flight of birds

persisting in the original shape of wind.

Whether they’re winging toward the scissors’ V

or printed and plastered on every wall

or bound and trussed, bamboo frames wound with wire

or sentenced to death by fire

you are, first

and always, ash.

Broken wire, a hurricane at each end.

Fire trucks scream across the earth.

But this blaze is a thing of the air.

Raise your glass higher, toss it up and away.

Few know this kind of dizzy glee:

an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.

OUYANG JIANGHE