诗/ Wislawa Szymborska
译/ 郭绿狮
大师的风景画上
树木在颜料里扎根；
小路确实通向某处
签名变成了一叶尊贵的青草；
这的确是下午五点整
五月被轻柔而坚定地停住了；
于是我也停住了——是啊亲爱的
我就是灰树下的那个女子
看那我已离你多远
看我如何帽檐洁白，衬衫灿黄
看我如何紧紧抓住手中的篮子以免从画中跌落
看我如何在他人的命运里游行
以此暂离生之迷局
纵然你唤，我也不闻
纵然我闻，亦不能转身
纵然我完成了不可能的转身
你在我眼里也是全然陌生
我熟知身边的世界，方圆六英里以内
我熟知医治百病的草药和咒语；
上帝仍俯视我的头颅
我仍祈祷安然死去；
战争是惩罚，和平是恩典
使人不安的梦来自撒旦
我的灵魂朴素如梅子的核
我不解心灵的嬉戏
我未见孩子父亲的裸身
我不怀疑《雅歌》的手稿
字迹繁杂墨水纵横；
我说话用完整的句子
我不绝望
因我并不拥有它
而只负责看管
纵使你拦我去路
纵使你注视我眼
深渊的纤如发丝的边沿
你我仍是要擦肩
右边是我的房子
我对它了如指掌
我的房子包括它的楼梯和过道
在那里，未被上色的故事在展开：
猫儿跳上长椅
阳光照耀着锡壶
瘦削的男人坐在桌旁
修理一口钟
注：原文为波兰文，根据 Joanna Trzeciak 的英译版译。
诗的标点符号与其他文体的不同，由于换行、分段的频繁使用，诗的标点符号的作用大大减弱（当然，也可以认为「换行符」是另一种「标点」）。若拘泥于原文的标点，往往该停顿的地方不够强调，本来不需要强调停顿的地方则被停顿了。故标点符号的使用，当视译文语言（此处为中文）的特点、音律及诗作的意思来定，不应拘泥。附 Trzeciak 的英译。
Landscape - Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak
In an old master's landscape
trees take root beneath the oil paint,
the path clearly leads somewhere,
a dignified blade of grass replaces the signature,
it's a credible five o'clock in the afternoon,
a gently but firmly stopped May,
so I too have stopped off––yes, dear,
I am that maiden beneath the ash tree.
Look how far away I've moved from you,
how white is my bonnet, how yellow my skirt,
how firmly I clutch my basket so I won't fall out of the painting,
how I parade in another's fate
and take a rest from living mysteries.
Even if you called, I would not hear,
and even if I heard, I would not turn,
and even if I made that impossible move,
your face would seem strange to me.
I know the world within a six-mile radius.
I know the herbs and spells for every ailment.
God still looks down on the top of my head.
I still pray for an unsudden death.
War is a punishment, and peace a reward.
Embarrassing dreams come from Satan.
My soul is as plain as the pit of a plum.
I don't know the game of hearts.
I don't know the nakedness of the father of my children.
I don't suspect the Song of Songs
of a complex, inked-up first draft.
What I want to say, is in complete sentences.
I don't use despair, for it is not mine,
but only entrusted me for safekeeping.
Even if you barred my path
even if you looked into my eyes,
I would pass you by on the razor's edge of the abyss.
To the right is my house, which I know my around,
along with its stairs and the passageway in,
where unpainted stories unfold:
the cat leaps onto a bench,
the sun falls onto a tin pitcher,
and a gaunt man sits at the table
repairing a clock.
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