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