詩苑｜陸遊、唐婉《釵頭鳳》（兩版英譯）

南宋愛國詩人陸遊受母親所迫與自己青梅竹馬的妻子唐婉分離，懷著對唐婉的思慕與對母親棒打鴛鴦的不滿之情，他寫下了一首《釵頭鳳》。唐婉讀後，愁怨難解，於是也和了一首《釵頭鳳》。下麪附上兩首《釵頭鳳》原詞及許淵沖、徐忠傑英譯本，讓我們從詞中感受兩人的眷戀之深、相思之切。

（朗讀者 喜馬拉雅用戶-檸檬陸陸）

釵頭鳳·紅酥手

[宋] 陸遊

紅酥手，黃藤酒，滿城春色宮牆柳。

東風惡，歡情薄，一懷愁緒，幾年離索。

錯，錯，錯。

春如舊，人空瘦，淚痕紅浥鮫綃透。

桃花落，閑池閣，山盟猶在，錦書難托。

莫，莫，莫。

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

許淵沖 譯

Pink hands so fine,

Gold-branded wine,

Spring paints the willows green palace walls can't confine.

East wind unfair,

Happy times rare.

In my heart sad thoughts throng;

We've severed for years long.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Spring is as green,

In vain she's lean.

Her kerchief soaked with tears and red with stains unclean.

Peach blossoms fall

Near deserted hall.

Our oath is still there. Lo!

No words to her can go.

No, no, no!

Chaitoufeng

徐忠傑 譯

What soft, ruddy hands with a beauty of line,

As they pour for me exquisite vintage wine!

All over town are signs and colors of spring;

Willows along the walls form a festooned string

The dowager lorded o’er our married life;

She killed our happiness as husband and wife.

Since we parted, a good many years have passed

But equally long did profound sorrow last.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Is the course I’ve let run

As heretofore unaltered, spring remain.

Only we have turned thinner but in vain.

A drenched handkerchief,

With red stains, bespeaks --

Profuse tears, running with rouge down

The cheeks,

Our married life was closed by a force supreme,

As peach flowers, into petals, left in a stream.

Though for me, our vow of love for e’er still hold.

How could I write you love-letters as of old?

No! No! No! Such things cannot be done!

釵頭鳳·世情薄

[宋] 唐婉

世情薄，人情惡，雨送黃昏花易落。

曉風乾，淚痕殘。欲牋心事，獨語斜闌。

難，難，難！

人成各，今非昨，病魂常似鞦千索。

角聲寒，夜闌珊。怕人尋問，咽淚裝歡。

瞞，瞞，瞞！

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

許淵沖 譯

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

The world unfair,

True manhood rare.

Dusk melts away in rain and blooming trees turn bare.

Morning wind high,

Tear traces dry.

I'd write to him what's in my heart;

Leaning on rails, I speak apart.

Hard, hard, hard!

Go each our ways!

Gone are our days.

My sick soul groans like ropes of swing which sways,

The horn blows cold;

Night has grown old.

Afraid my grief may be descried,

I try to hide my tears undried.

Hide, hide, hide!