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Last Post - Carol Ann Duffy
《最后一首》卡罗尔·安·达菲
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
曾几梦回，在我迷惘的眼前，他投入我怀中，淌泪，哽咽，窒息。
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud.
倘若诗可逆时光之流道来，那就从弹片割你血肉、你跌入泥泞中的那刻开始吧。
But you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood run upwards from the slime into its wounds; see lines and lines of British boys rewind back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home.
但你站了起来，吃惊地看着鲜血流淌淌过烂泥，又侵入伤口；你看着一排排的英国弟兄撤回阵地，亲吻家中寄来的相片。
Mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers not entering the story now, to die and die and die.
多少母亲，爱人，姐妹，兄弟故事的画面里没有他们，只有死亡，死亡，死亡。
You walk away.
你离开了。
You walk away; drop your gun, like all your mates do too.
你离开了，放下了手中的枪，就像你的那些兄弟们一样。
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert - and light a cigarette.
哈利，汤姆，威尔弗雷德，爱德华，伯特 — 你点了一根烟。
There's coffee in the square, warm French bread and all those thousands dead are shaking dried mud from their hair and queuing up for home.
街区里有咖啡，温热的法式面包，还有那成千上万的死者甩掉头发上早已干了的泥土排着队等待回乡。
Freshly alive, a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
多么鲜活啊，一位小伙在人群中演奏蒂珀雷里歌谣，他解放了从历史脱身；健硕的马匹配上英雄们，国王们。
You lean against a wall, your several million lives still possible and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
你靠着墙，你那百万条生命还仍存希望，他们身后满是爱，工作，孩子，才华，英式啤酒，美食。
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
你看着诗人藏起了他的袖珍书，微微一笑。
If poetry could truly tell it backwards, then it would.
倘若诗真能逆时光之流道来，那它一定会的。
