No need to imagine. No need for metaphor.

想像是不必的，隱喻是不必的，

No need to write. Yet we still create.

寫作也不必。然而我們寫著。

Our pens can’t sway the iron hand, the hand

即使我們的筆頭不碰上鐵，鐵

that will one day break us.

最終也要來折斷我們。

No need to find a simile for beast, no need

比喻為獸是不必的，呼喚為兄

to show respect. Ten years ago I tried,

也不必——儘管十年前我曾呼喚，

my pen dipped in ash:

十年前我也曾蘸骨灰寫信：

no need to die, but blood must spill on snow.

死亡是不必的，血落上雪卻是必然。

No need to demand poetic art, Pound alone

苛求詩藝亦不必，只有龐德

saw steel bars as staves for music: brightness ascends.

才能把鐵欄想為五線譜：明亮上揚。

The pen composes literature, not history;

撰寫文學史的筆觸及不了歷史，

no need to touch—memory’s nobility doesn’t require it.

觸及也是不必的，記憶的高貴並不需要。

In China, so many people from 1990

這麼多人，從一九九〇年的中國

surging toward 2002. Nihilism hurts me.

湧向二〇〇二年的中國，我被虛無撞傷。

Martyrs or businessmen, Gulag or Beijing:

烈士或商人，古拉格或北京：

someone else takes up the pen, inscribing ghosts.

將有另一些人重新執筆，書寫鬼魂。

No need to heal. Ink seeps from wounds.

療傷是不必的，從傷中取墨卻是必然。