雨
浓墨的笔触在天空填满了雨。
我装作奔向避雨处，心中暗暗祈求更大的雨。
在雨水的回声之上，我听到一个声音在呼唤我的名字。
这座城市中没有一个人在这看不见的急雨中奔走。
我的笔记本已经湿透，卷曲。我曾在上面写道：
“瑜伽师张开嘴连续几个小时喝雨水。”
天空是装满黑水的碗，漂洗着你的脸。
窗户在颤抖，玻璃仿佛会在大雨中碎成液体。
我是一个漆黑的碗，渴望被灌满。
如果我现在张开嘴，我会在淹死在这雨中。
我奔向家门，就像有人在那里等着我。
夜倾泻在你的皮肤上。而我是雨。
作者 / [美国] 卡兹姆·阿里
翻译 /光诸
Rain
With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.
Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.
Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.
No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.
The pages of my notebook soak, then curl. I’ve written:
“Yogis opened their mouths for hours to drink the rain.”
The sky is a bowl of dark water, rinsing your face.
The window trembles; liquid glass could shatter into rain.
I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled.
If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain.
I hurry home as though someone is there waiting for me.
The night collapses into your skin. I am the rain.
BY KAZIM ALI
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