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據我所知那是一道通向黑暗的門。
外麵,舊軸和鐵環生鏽了;
裏麵,鐵錘碰擊鍛砧發出的短高音,
無法預料的扇形火花
或新馬蹄鐵在水中淬火時的嘶嘶聲。
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,他在音樂聲中擴展鍛造成型。
有時腰圍皮革裙,鼻毛清晰可見,
他倚門探身,在車流穿行的路上
回想馬蹄的得得聲;
然後咕噥著走進去,重擊快敲
打出真鐵,鼓動風箱。
(林木譯)
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.