飛蛾書庫

刘海龙：对谣言“一删了之”，是非常粗糙的做法 《欺骗世界的医生》 https://t.me/MothLib/16880

Rootless 　 Between Hanoi and Sapa there are clean slabs of rice fields and no two brick houses in a row. I mean, no three— See, counting’s hard in half-sleep, and the rain pulls a sheet over the sugar palms and their untroubled leaves. Hours ago, I crossed a motorbike with a hog strapped to its seat, the size of a date pit from a distance. Can this solitude be rootless, unhooked from the ground? No matter. The mind resides both inside and out. It can think itself and think itself into existence. I sponge off the eyes, no worse for wear. My frugal mouth spends the only foreign words it owns. At present, on this sleeper train, there’s nowhere toarrive. Me? I’m just here in my traveler’s clothes, trying on each passing town for size. Jenny Xie #诗歌

饮马 　 黎明前是那样的严寒，华氏零下27度， 我嘎吱嘎吱踏着积雪向我的马儿走去。 她若有所思地望着我的脆弱身体，本能地 觉得应该受到尊敬。薄薄一层未融化的雪 罩在她的背部隔热层的棕毛上。 我脱下手套，手指伸进她柔软的毛里， 她的皮肤摸起来好像刚烤好的热面包。 如果我准备得好一些，也许带着食料来，对此 她可能不屑一顾地喷鼻息，但我只查看了饮水。 她凝望着我——知道我这时转身走开的话， 可能会很快像僵硬的栏杆似的跌倒， 这些长久地支撑我的世界的栏杆！迎着 这如法兰绒般厚的湿冷，我的话毫无用处。 在这里，她是用她鼻息的热气写作的作家。 作者 / [美国]罗杰·马丁 翻译 / 张子清 Watering the Horse 　 Twenty-seven below, starkness before dawn; I scrunch through snow toward an impassive shape sacred in her night-long confessional. A fine layer of unmelted powder quilts the long hairs that insulate her back. I remove a glove and sew my fingers beneath the fur, her skin comforting as toast. Were I better equipped, perhaps bearing grain she might condescend to snort, but I check only water. She watches—should I stumble I would quickly stiffen like these rails which keep my world at length, words useless against the cold as wet flannel. Here, she is composer writing on the vapor of her breath. Rodger Martin #诗歌