绝早  黑夜分裂成无数乌鸦  叼着曙光

再次扑向恒河三角洲  苍天下无人回避  

不怕死的加尔各答   在乌云下面挥舞着脏毛巾  

古铜色的脊背一个个亮了  众目睽睽下冲澡的人们  

无人在乎裸露  水花四溅  清凉涌进大街  风回来了

当我打开窗子  就看见悲伤天使的唱诗班在天空中站着  

带来永恒的一日  歌唱死亡的音色有点沙哑  难听

但是自然  诚实  勇敢地唱着  加尔各答  加尔

各答  加尔各答  老蜈蚣般的火车扬着长发

穿过郊区  站在车厢门口的刚刚离开了故乡

一位婆罗门坐下来盘好脚  将曾祖父用过的经卷摊开

睡不醒的加尔各答  无梦的加尔各答  坚定不移的

加尔各答  印度以北的加尔各答  大河  平原  

尘土和落日的加尔各答  神庙早已完成  

司空见惯的事物统治此地  在彗星到达之前  

不会再发生奇迹   骑着单车的加尔各答

黑暗的电车车厢里没有手机  有人说  满车的穷鬼  

未必吧   明亮处  三轮车夫埋着头在烈日下蹬着旧轮子

老迈的白牛在敲着地面的长钟  自卑的高架桥停下来

等着成为废墟   乌鸦它说，你好！  赤脚的

加尔各答  少年在灰里跑  把大人扔掉的瓶子拾起来

背着包袱的男女老少纷纷跳下英国火车回到家乡  

他们要去织布  要去种水稻  要死在泥巴里

死亡是永不结束的庆典  焚尸炉在河畔冒烟

抬着尸体去  扛着空担架回来  轻盈的加尔各答

穿裙子的加尔各答  祭司们崇拜的加尔各答

浓妆艳抹的加尔各答  衣冠褴褛的加尔各答 

小裁缝的针缝出来的加尔各答  世世代代的工具  

铁匠铺永不熄灭   熨斗烫过的加尔各答

动手动脚的加尔各答  吉普塞人的歌声响了

他们必须跳舞  信神   这才是生活  

洗衣妇一天就用去整条恒河的加尔各答

每天都滚来一条全新的恒河的加尔各答

黑夜在她们的水罐里消失  天空在下雨的加尔各答 

一群人抬着他们死去的父亲去燃烧  跳着舞呵  

加尔各答  快乐地走呵  唱着歌呵  加尔各答  

好玩的加尔各答   无忧无虑的加尔各答

像恒河那样缓缓走着的加尔各答  没有惊涛骇浪  

没有高山峡谷  平原上的加尔各答   

布匹飘扬的加尔各答  阳台上晾着沙丽的加尔各答

劳动者忙忙碌碌的加尔各答  旧书堆积如山的加尔各答

坐在货棚下读报的加尔各答  祖母们的加尔各答

湿漉漉的绳子在水井旁闪闪发光的加尔各答

人行道上陈列着一杯杯果汁的加尔各答

大象般苍老的加尔各答  灰蒙蒙的加尔各答  

一万只猴子爬在屋顶上  扩大了丛林的边界  

坐在大地上的加尔各答  危险的加尔各答

妓女们倒掉昨日的污水  她们照镜子描口红的样子

就像孔雀的老师   就像青春的加尔各答    

一片片挂在旧衣服人行道上等着出售

衣冠楚楚多么难堪   幸福只需要一块好棉布

地摊上的加尔各答   棉花匠的加尔各答

裁缝的加尔各答   补鞋匠的加尔各答

祖母和妇女的加尔各答  盲人的加尔各答

裹着头巾的老巫师的加尔各答   世界最后的神庙

一万个神在公交车站工地商业中心棚屋和巷道里出没

七千年前的祈祷之声响在屋顶  装在陶罐里的加尔各答

英国圆柱下面睡着苦行僧的加尔各答  泰戈尔的加尔各答

有人在用英语念着《飞鸟集》  他的庭院的夏天是赤脚的

手臂上戴着黄金的加尔各答  额头上印着红点的加尔各答

白衫飘飘飘飘的加尔各答   胡椒盐巴和糖的加尔各答

长途客车窗口排列着石头般脸庞的加尔各答

在车门口晃着一叠脏钞票催人上车的加尔各答

说24种语言的加尔各答  潮水般涌向火车站的加尔各答

不会讲英语的曾经是不列颠殖民地的加尔各答 

织布者甘地的加尔各答  王维和李白的加尔各答 

他们会找到无数志同道合者  玄奘的加尔各答

再次取经  他依然记得盛奶茶的小碗是泥巴捏的

用过就扔到地上  怀旧者的加尔各答  

他们在怀疑自己的人生路线是不是走错了

如此落后  如此贫穷  如此肮脏 如此欢乐  如此健康  

永远扫不干净的加尔各答  我行我素的加尔各答

令洁癖们绝望的加尔各答  垃圾不会比人类滋生更多的腐肉  

沿着恒河大道跑来的一场暴雨就干干净净的加尔各答呵  

我与你们不同  我去过加尔各答  成就不在于你得到什么  

而在于你去过哪里  不朽的一天  我来到加尔各答

恒河的支流  遇到八十岁的诗人瑞明·钱德拉·摩克波提耶

和他六十五岁的学生丽塔  白发苍苍的老师和学生  带着诗集  

带着我穿过沙丽般的曙光  在一只漆黑的煎饼锅子旁吃早餐

Kolkata

YUJIAN

At dawn, the night splits into countless crows, clutching the dawn
And pounces again on the Ganges Delta. Under the sky, no one flinches
Kolkata, unafraid of death, waves its dirty towel beneath the crows
Bronze backs glisten one by one—people bathing in full view
No one cares about nudity. Water splashes, coolness surges into the streets, and the wind returns
When I open the window, I see the choir of sorrowful angels standing in the sky
Bringing an eternal day. Their singing of death is a hoarse, ugly tone
But natural, honest, brave. Kolkata, Kolkata, Kolkata
The old centipede-like train flutters its long hair
Cutting through the suburbs. At the carriage door, someone has just left their hometown
A Brahmin sits down, crosses his legs, and unfurls the scripture scroll his great-grandfather used
Sleepy Kolkata, dreamless Kolkata, unshakable
Kolkata, north of India, of great rivers, plains
Dust and sunset. The temple was long ago completed
Familiar things rule this place. No miracles will happen
Before the comet arrives. Kolkata on bicycles
No phones in the dark tram cars. Someone says, "A carriage full of poor ghosts"
Not necessarily. In the light, a rickshaw driver buries his head, pedaling an old wheel under the scorching sun
An old white cow strikes the long bell of the earth. The自卑 viaduct stops
Waiting to become ruins. The crow says, "Hello!" Barefoot
Kolkata. Boys run through the ash, picking up bottles adults threw away
Men and women with bundles jump off British trains and return home
They will weave cloth, grow rice, die in the mud
Death is an endless celebration. Crematoriums smoke by the river
Carry the corpses there, return with empty stretchers. Light Kolkata
Skirted Kolkata, worshipped by priests
Made-up Kolkata, ragged Kolkata
Kolkata sewn by the tailor's needle, tools of generations
The blacksmith's fire never goes out. Kolkata pressed by the iron
Touchy-feely Kolkata. Gypsy songs ring out
They must dance, believe in gods. This is life
Kolkata where washerwomen use the entire Ganges in a day
Kolkata where a new Ganges rolls in every day
Night disappears in their water pots. Kolkata where the sky rains
A group carries their dead father to the pyre, dancing
Kolkata, walk happily, sing. Kolkata
Playful Kolkata, carefree Kolkata
Kolkata walking slowly like the Ganges, no roaring waves
No high mountains or deep valleys. Kolkata on the plain
Kolkata with fluttering cloth, Kolkata with saris drying on balconies
Busy laborers' Kolkata, Kolkata piled high with old books
Kolkata where people sit under sheds reading newspapers, grandmothers' Kolkata
Kolkata where wet ropes glisten by the well
Kolkata with glasses of juice displayed on the sidewalk
Elephant-old Kolkata, gray Kolkata
Ten thousand monkeys climb the roofs, expanding the jungle's borders
Kolkata sitting on the earth, dangerous Kolkata
Prostitutes pour out yesterday's sewage. Their mirror-gazing, lipstick-applying looks
Like the peacock's teacher, like young Kolkata
Pieces of old clothes hang on the sidewalk for sale
Being well-dressed is such an embarrassment. Happiness only needs a good piece of cotton cloth
Street stall Kolkata, cotton weavers' Kolkata
Tailors' Kolkata, cobblers' Kolkata
Grandmothers and women's Kolkata, blind people's Kolkata
Old turbaned wizards' Kolkata, the world's last temple
Ten thousand gods haunt bus stops, construction sites, malls, shanties and alleys
Prayers from seven thousand years ago echo on the roofs. Kolkata stored in clay pots
Kolkata where sadhus sleep under British columns, Tagore's Kolkata
Someone reads Stray Birds in English. The summer in his courtyard is barefoot
Kolkata with gold on arms, Kolkata with red dots on foreheads
Kolkata with fluttering white shirts, Kolkata of pepper, salt and sugar
Kolkata with stone faces lined up in long-distance bus windows
Kolkata where someone waves a stack of dirty bills, urging people to board the bus
Kolkata that speaks 24 languages, Kolkata surging toward the train station
Kolkata, once a British colony, that doesn't speak English
Gandhi the weaver's Kolkata, Wang Wei and Li Bai's Kolkata
They would find countless like-minded souls. Xuanzang's Kolkata
Seeking scriptures again. He still remembers the small milk bowl was made of mud
Thrown on the ground after use. Nostalgics' Kolkata
They doubt if they took the wrong path in life
So backward, so poor, so dirty, so joyful, so healthy
Kolkata that's never clean, Kolkata that does as it pleases
Kolkata that drives neat freaks to despair. Garbage breeds no more rot than humans
A heavy rain running down Ganges Road cleans it all, Kolkata
I am different from you. I have been to Kolkata. Achievement lies not in what you gain
But in where you have been. One immortal day, I came to Kolkata
A tributary of the Ganges, met 80-year-old poet Ramendra Chandra Mukhopadhyay
And his 65-year-old student Rita. White-haired teacher and student, carrying poetry collections
Led me through sari-like dawn, to eat breakfast by a dark pancake pan