She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
超越大海的原则，她放声歌唱。
The water never formed to mind or voice,
海水无心，亦无花腔，只有
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
一个身体，实足的身体，挥舞起
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
它的空袖。但它戏仿的动作
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
发出永久的呐喊，引导永久的呐喊，
That was not ours although we understood,
毫无人意，不为人知，正是
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
汪洋肺腑里名符其实的呐喊。
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
大海绝非面具。她更不是。
The song and water were not medleyed sound
歌与海并非声音的大杂烩，
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
虽然她字正腔圆，一字一句地
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
唱出了她的听闻，虽然她的咏叹
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
杂和着海的磨牙，风的喘气；
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
是她，而非海，被我们听到。
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
她就是她自己歌声的缔造者。
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
打着悲剧的手势，蒙着头巾的大海
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
只是她前来放歌的地点。
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
这是谁的灵气？既然承认
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
我们求索的和认定的是灵气，
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
我们就得再三叩问她歌的缘起。
That we should ask this often as she sang.
假若只有海的黑闷之声，
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
升腾，或被万朵浪花点染；
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
假若只是天和云的，或压在水墙下的
If it was only the outer voice of sky
珊瑚之声，边远之声，
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
不管如何清晰，也不外乎是深厚的
However clear, it would have been deep air,
空气的回荡，是夏季之响
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
回荡于那不可能终结的夏季，是
Repeated in a summer without end
声响而已。然而，她的声音岂止如此。
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
她的歌甚至多于歌，多于我们，多于
More even than her voice, and ours, among
水和风的空口无凭，缥缈的布景，堆砌在
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
天边的铜像幻影，和水天之际
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
凝重如山的气息。
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
正是她的歌声
Of sky and sea.
使天空的消逝变得如此贴切。
她配制出此时此刻的孤独。
It was her voice that made
她独自缔造了歌的世界。
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
当她放歌，大海便脱弃自身，变成
She measured to the hour its solitude.
她的歌唱本身，因为她是缔造者。而我们
She was the single artificer of the world
看她孤独地昂首阔步，领悟到
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
世界从来就是她唱出的世界，
Whatever self it had, became the self
对她而言，绝非他物。
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
罗曼·费南定兹，可否告诉我
Knew that there never was a world for her
这是为何：当歌声结束，我们
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
回城，那些荧灯，那些
停泊的渔舟的灯火，面对
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
空中跌落的夜色，竟然
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
把握了夜，分配了夜？竟然
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
摆布出火树银花，安排，
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
加深，甚至迷醉了夜？
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
啊，苍白的罗曼，请看：秩序的激昂！
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
献给大海之词的缔造者的激昂，
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
香门之词，隐约被星空烘托，
用更恰切的微妙，更清晰的声响，
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
诉说着我们，诉说着我们的本源。
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.