瘋狂的石榴樹
在這些刷白的庭園中，當南風
悄悄拂過有拱頂的走廊，告訴我，是那瘋狂的石榴樹
在陽光中跳躍，在風的嬉戲和絮語中
撒落她果實累累的歡笑？告訴我，
當大清早在高空帶著勝利的戰果展示她的五光十色，
是那瘋狂的石榴樹帶著新生的枝葉在蹦跳？
當赤身裸體的姑娘們在草地上醒來，
用雪白的手採摘青青的三葉草，
在夢的邊緣上游盪，告訴我，是那瘋狂的石榴樹，
出其不意地把亮光找到她們新編的籃子上，
使她們的名字在鳥兒的歌聲中迴響，告訴我，
是那瘋了的石榴樹與多雲的天空在較量？
當白晝用七色彩羽令人妒羨地打扮起來，
用上千支炫目的三棱鏡圍住不朽的太陽，
告訴我，是那瘋了的石榴樹
抓住了一匹受百鞭之笞而狂奔的馬的尾鬃，
它不悲哀，不訴苦；告訴我，是那瘋狂的石榴樹
高聲叫嚷著正在綻露的新生的希望？
告訴我，是那瘋狂的石榴樹老遠地歡迎我們，
拋擲著煤火一樣的多葉的手帕，
當大海就要為漲了上千次，退向冷僻海岸的潮水
投放成千隻船舶，告訴我
是那瘋狂的石榴樹
使高懸於透明空中的帆吱吱地響？
高高懸掛的綠色葡萄串，洋洋得意地發著光，
狂歡著，充滿下墜的危險，告訴我，
是那瘋狂的石榴樹在世界的中央用光亮粉碎了
魔鬼的險惡的氣候，它用白晝的桔黃色的衣領到處伸展，
那衣領繡滿了黎明的歌聲，告訴我，
是那瘋狂的石榴樹迅速地把白晝的綢衫揭開了？
在四月初春的裙子和八月中旬的蟬聲中，
告訴我，那個歡跳的她，狂怒的她，誘人的她，
那驅逐一切惡意的黑色的、邪惡的陰影的人兒，
把暈頭轉向的鳥傾瀉於太陽胸脯上的人兒，
告訴我，在萬物懷裡，在我們最深沉的夢鄉里，
展開翅膀的她，就是那瘋狂的石榴樹嗎？
（袁可嘉譯）
Odysseus Elytis
The Mad Pomegranate Tree
In these all-white courtyards where the south wind blows
Whistling through vaulted arcades, tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That leaps in the light, scattering its fruitful laughter
With windy wilfulness and whispering, tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That quivers with foliage newly born at dawn
Raising high its colours in a shiver of triumph?
On plains where the naked girls awake,
When they harvest clover with their light brown arms
Roaming round the borders of their dreams–tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree,
Unsuspecting, that puts the lights in their verdant baskets
That floods their names with the singing of birds–tell me
Is it the mad pomegranate tree that combats the cloudy skies of the world?
On the day that it adorns itself in jealousy with seven kinds of feathers,
Girding the eternal sun with a thousand blinding prisms
Tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That seizes on the run a horse's mane of a hundred lashes,
Never sad and never grumbling–tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That cries out the new hope now dawning?
Tell me, is that the mad pomegranate tree waving in the distance,
Fluttering a handkerchief of leaves of cool flame,
A sea near birth with a thousand ships and more,
With waves that a thousand times and more set out and go
To unscented shores–tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That creaks the rigging aloft in the lucid air?
High as can be, with the blue bunch of grapes that flares and celebrates
Arrogant, full of danger–tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That shatters with light the demon's tempests in the middle of the world
That spreads far as can be the saffron ruffle of the day
Richly embroidered with scattered songs–tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree
That hastily unfastens the silk apparel of day?
In petticoats of April first and cicadas of the feast of mid-August
Tell me, that which plays, that which rages, that which can entice
Shaking out of threats their evil black darkness
Spilling the sun's embrace intoxicating birds
Tell me, that which opens its wings on the breast of things
On the breast of our deepest dreams, is that the mad pomegranate tree?
Greek; trans. Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard
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