我所知道的是一道通向黑暗的門。
外麵，生鏽的舊軸和鐵環;
裏麵，鐵錘碰擊鍛砧發出的短高音，
無法預料的扇形火花
或新蹄鞋在水中變硬時的嘶嘶聲。
鍛砧該放在中央某處，
一端像獨角獸的犄角，四方形，
固定不動：一座祭台
在那裏，他在叮當聲中揮臂鍛造成型。
有時腰圍皮革裙，鼻有茸毛，
他斜靠門框探著身子，在車流穿行的路上
回想馬蹄的得得聲;
然後咕噥著走進去，輕敲重擊
鼓動風箱，打出真鐵。
The Forge
by Seamus Heaney
All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
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