有一次我要一隻鳥唱歌

牠說我唱
不出來也不想唱
這不是春天

我捏著牠的脖子
說
唱呀唱呀
不唱歌算什麼鳥

牠掙扎著
但終于沒唱成

我現在想
其實鳥沒錯
又不是詩人
哪能一年到頭
說唱就唱

但那時候我祗一心
要牠唱歌
竟沒注意到
春天就在我手裡
微顫著
斷氣


ONCE I ASKED A BIRD TO SING

he said no, I can’t
and I won’t
it’s not spring

I grasped his neck
and yelled
SING! SING!
WHAT KIND OF BIRD ARE YOU IF YOU DON’T SING
he gasped and struggled
but to the end he did not utter
one single note

I now realize
it really wasn’t his fault
not being a poet
he could not sing
uninspired

but possessed by a burning passion
I insisted on his singing then and there
and did not notice in my hand
spring had expired in agony