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