《关于永恒》

马可尼

当我们说 这个世界是如此的浮躁 我们的心 其实已经乱了 像一片秋叶 在风中轻轻颤抖 当我们说 青春很容易逝去 我们的心 其实已经老了 像一汪静水 映照着岁月的皱纹 当我们说 爱情也是靠不住的 我们的心 其实已经经历过了 像一盏孤灯 在黑暗中默默燃烧 当我们说 不再争取 我们的心 其实已经疲惫了 像一只倦鸟 在黄昏中寻找归巢 我们一直在追求 永恒 却被理智 拉回到现实 像一个没有结尾的故事 留下念想 让我们停留在童话里 而母亲的爱 却是像时光里定格的画面 无论她在与不在 永恒就在那里 静静地 等着我们 回家的路 译文：When we sayThis world is so restless and vain,Our heartsHave already lost their calmLike an autumn leafTrembling softly in the wind. When we sayYouth fades away so easily,Our heartsHave already grown oldLike still waterReflecting the wrinkles of time. When we sayLove too is unreliable,Our heartsHave already lived through itLike a lonely lampBurning quietly in the dark. When we sayWe will strive no more,Our heartsHave already grown wearyLike a tired birdSeeking its nest in the dusk. We are always chasingEternity,But reasonDrags us back to realityLike a story without an ending,Leaving us with longing,Lingering in a fairy tale. Yet a mother’s loveIs like a moment frozen in time—Whether she is here or not,Eternity remains there,QuietlyWaiting for usOn the way back home. 《为我的诗作序：当文字止步，而爱开始》 我写下这些句子时，正处在一种矛盾的清醒中——我知道自己在用有限的文字，追赶着无限的情感。 那些“当我们说……其实已经……”的结构，是我为自己、也为同代人画下的一幅精神自画像。我们总在言说中暴露失去，在叹息里泄露年龄。秋叶、静水、孤灯、倦鸟……这些意象不是修辞，它们是我——以及许多人——心灵状态的直接显影。我们活在一种普遍的“后失去”状态里：当我们能命名某种匮乏时，它往往已成事实。 而关于“永恒”的段落，是我最诚实的自我剖白。我（我们）多么渴望将某些瞬间铸成不朽的艺术品，像童话停格在最美的篇章。席慕蓉说这是“一件想挽回什么的欲望”，我深以为然。我的诗，正是这欲望的产物——试图用文字的净土，容纳终将消逝的悸动。 但诗的转折，发生在母亲出场的那一刻。 写到此处，我放下了所有诗人的技艺。因为母亲的爱拒绝被“艺术品化”。她不是我们建构的“永恒”，不是对抗消逝的努力，她就是存在本身。文字在这里显得笨拙——我无法“描写”她，只能“指认”她：爱就在那里，如路静候。 这揭示了我写作的深层真相：前面所有关于浮躁、青春、爱情、疲惫的叹息，所有对永恒的追寻，在母爱面前都显出了它们的“相对性”。我们一生所求的“不朽记忆”，或许只是因为尚未认出那早已存在的、无条件的永恒。 所以这首诗，最终是一首归返之诗。 我用前面的四节，丈量了人与永恒之间的距离；用最后一节，记录了那道无需丈量、始终存在的桥。母亲的爱，不是诗歌的题材，而是诗歌得以诞生的源泉；不是被言说的对象，而是让所有言说获得意义的光。 写完最后一行，我放下了笔。文字所能做的已经完成，而爱，正在文字之外静静延伸—— 像一条路，等着所有流浪的词，回家。 Preface to My Poem: Where Words End, Love Begins I wrote these lines in a state of paradoxical clarity—knowing that I was using finite words to chase infinite emotion. The structure of “when we say… we have already…” serves as a spiritual self-portrait I drew for myself and for our generation. We always reveal our losses in what we say, betray our age in our sighs. The autumn leaf, the still water, the solitary lamp, the weary bird—these are not mere rhetoric. They are direct reflections of my own state of heart, and that of many others. We live in a kind of universal “post-loss” condition: by the time we can name a certain lack, it has often already become fact. The passage about “eternity” is my most honest self-confession. How intensely I (we) long to cast certain moments into enduring works of art, like a fairy tale frozen at its most beautiful chapter.席慕蓉 said this is “a desire to retrieve something,” and I profoundly agree. My poem is precisely a product of that desire—an attempt to contain within the pure land of words the stirrings that are destined to fade. But the poem’s turn occurs the moment the mother appears. Writing to this point, I laid aside all poetic craft. Because a mother’s love refuses to be “art-ified.” She is not a “永恒” we construct, not an effort against fading—she is existence itself. Language feels clumsy here—I cannot “describe” her, I can only “point to” her: the love is simply there, like a road waiting in stillness. This reveals a deeper truth about my writing: all the preceding sighs about restlessness, youth, love, and weariness, all the seeking after eternity, reveal their “relativity” before maternal love. The “immortal memory” we spend our lives pursuing may simply be because we have not yet recognized the unconditional eternity that has always existed. Thus, this poem is ultimately a poem of return. With the first four sections, I measured the distance between humanity and eternity; with the final section, I recorded that bridge which needs no measuring and has always been there. A mother’s love is not the subject of poetry, but the very source from which poetry is born; not the object of speech, but the light that gives all speech its meaning. After writing the last line, I set down my pen. What words could do was complete, yet love continues to extend quietly beyond them— like a road, waiting for all wandering words to come home.