那第七个

今天John Berger去世了，翻出一些旧书来，觉得除了作业之外，自己还要写点什么。想起那本"A Seventh Man”。讲述迁徙的劳工，跨国迁徙的劳工，几十年过去，回头看，世界已经大变：工厂开始迁徙，建到工人便宜的地方，而且有了世界银行，有了国际货币基金组织，有了世贸......然而工人还在离家，穷人还在更穷。

这本书的名字来源于匈牙利诗人Attila Jozsef的一首诗，就把这首诗翻译了吧。

那第七个

Attila Jozsef

如果你启程向这个世界进发

最好让自己出生七次。

一次，在一间着火的房子里，

一次，在冰冷的洪水里，

一次，在狂乱的疯人院里，

一次，在成熟的麦田里，

一次，在一个空寂的修道院中，

再一次，降生在栏里的猪群里。

有六个婴儿在哭喊了啊，可这不够：

你，你自己，必须得是那第七个。

当你需要为活下去而奋争时，

让你的敌人看见七个。

一个，星期天不用做工，

一个，从周一开始工作，

一个，无偿地在教书，

一个，在溺水中学会游泳，

一个，是一座森林的一粒种子，

还有一个，原始的先父将一直守护，

可所有这些计谋也都不够：

你，你自己，必须得是那第七个。

如果你想找一个女人，

让七个男人去追她。

一个，用心换来几句话，

一个，照顾好自己，

一个，承认自己是个爱做梦的人，

一个，撩起她的裙子摸到了她，

一个，知道那些衣扣和搭裢，

一个，踩过她的围巾：

让他们像苍蝇一样绕着她嗡嗡吧。

你，你自己，必须得是那第七个。

如果你写作，而且还写得出来，

让七个男人来写你的诗吧。

一个，修建一座大理石村庄，

一个，出生在睡梦中，

一个，丈量天空并且知道答案，

一个，词语就是他的名字，

一个，将自己的灵魂变得完美，

一个，活剖老鼠。

他们有两个勇敢的和四个智慧的；

你，你自己，必须得是那第七个。

这样，如果一切都按照写下来的这样进行，

你会为这七个人而死。

一个，被轻轻摇晃着接受乳汁，

一个，抓着青春的乳房，

一个，将空盘子扔下，

一个，帮助穷人挺过，

一个，一直工作直到自己碎成片，

一个，只是盯着月亮。

这个世界将是你的墓碑：

你，你自己，必须得是那第七个。

The Seventh (A hetedik)

Attila József, 1905 - 1937

If you set out in this world,

better be born seven times.

Once, in a house on fire,

once, in a freezing flood,

once, in a wild madhouse,

once, in a field of ripe wheat,

once, in an empty cloister,

and once among pigs in sty.

Six babes crying, not enough:

you yourself must be the seventh.

When you must fight to survive,

let your enemy see seven.

One, away from work on Sunday,

one, starting his work on Monday,

one, who teaches without payment,

one, who learned to swim by drowning,

one, who is the seed of a forest,

and one, whom wild forefathers protect,

but all their tricks are not enough:

you yourself must be the seventh.

If you want to find a woman,

let seven men go for her.

One, who gives heart for words,

one, who takes care of himself,

one, who claims to be a dreamer,

one, who through her skirt can feel her,

one, who knows the hooks and snaps,

one, who steps upon her scarf:

let them buzz like flies around her.

You yourself must be the seventh.

If you write and can afford it,

let seven men write your poem.

One, who builds a marble village,

one, who was born in his sleep,

one, who charts the sky and knows it,

one, whom words call by his name,

one, who perfected his soul,

one, who dissects living rats.

Two are brave and four are wise;

You yourself must be the seventh.

And if all went as was written,

you will die for seven men.

One, who is rocked and suckled,

one, who grabs a hard young breast,

one, who throws down empty dishes,

one, who helps the poor win;

one, who worked till he goes to pieces,

one, who just stares at the moon.

The world will be your tombstone:

you yourself must be the seventh.