诅咒孩子--格林.麦克斯韦尔

亲爱的，把我想成一辆停着的火车。我一路行走，但你可以在你喜欢的任何地方下车。
--向前的移动的男性说在托雷茉莉诺斯一直很成功
.
愿你生命中的爱在安架搭上
或在四号终点站唤醒沉睡。
希望他的带帽防寒短上衣变大，带着笔记本
记下他看见的火车的数字。
希望他用尖利刺耳的声音读出这些。
希望他和他的伙伴喝真正的麦芽啤酒而你
在烟雾里望着眨眼睛。希望他的头发是一个笑料，
希望他最快乐的时光在克鲁郡度过。

希望他在酸橙绿色的客货车里给你打电话，
希望他内心最深处的思想是任何人的猜测。
希望他对“谁是你最喜爱的乐队的？”回答
是唯一他答“是”的机会，
而且之后希望他加上：“是维克曼那时和他们一起
演奏，你就是证明人”。希望他的穿着物
永不会再流行。希望他妈妈
溺爱，至诚，在楼下走来走去。

希望你的法语变青蛙，希望你的羊角面包变直，
希望你的面包是霍维斯牌面粉的，你的葡萄酒是手工制造的，
希望你的额外的趣味是老辣椒男士香水，你唯一的女士内衣
是波峰前线的，你的美逐渐消失。
希望你卷缩在挪德之地像孩童
你就是不合时宜的人，尖叫了一路
从佩皮尼昂到奥斯特里茨车站，
从巴黎到加来一路回响。

角落里的那个男人，手抱着头
清醒地坐着，发出了这个诅咒。
他现在远去了。让他保持清醒的东西
不尖叫，哭喊或写诗了；
有这么一段时间只有安静，倾斜，
我非常讨厌的新生儿，酣睡着朦胧出现。
愿你永远不知道这个。愿你的人生无聊
如男人可以获得成功一样，但，亲爱的，希望你安睡。
Darlin’, think of me as a stoppin’ train. I go all the way, but you can get off anywhere you like.
– Male advance said to have been successful in Torremolinos

May the love of your life get on at Ongar
 Or wake up sleeping on Terminal 4.
May his anorak grow big with jotters
 Noting the numbers of trains he saw.
May he read these out in a reedy voice.
 May he drink real ale with his mates while you
Blink in the smoke. May his hair be a joke,
 May his happiest hour have been spent in Crewe.

May he call for you in a lime-green van,
 May his innermost thoughts be anyone’s guess.
May his answer to “Who’s your favourite band?”
 Be the only occasion he answers “YES”,
But then may he add: “When Wakeman was with ‘em”
 And play you the evidence. May what he wears
Never again be in vogue. May his mother
 Dote, devote and move in downstairs.

May your French turn frog, may your croissant go straight,
 May your bread be Hovis, your wine homemade,
May your spice be Old Spice, your only lingerie
 Les fronts-igrec, and your beauty fade.
May you curl in the land of Nod like the child
 You were when you wouldn’t, and screamed all the way
From Perpignan to the Gare d’Austerlitz,
 Echoed through Paris and on to Calais.

The man in the corner, who sat with his head
 Awake in his hands, has issued this curse.
He is far away now. What keeps him awake
 Isn’t screaming, crying or writing verse;
It is sometimes nothing but quiet, sloping,
 My terrible infant, looming and deep.
May you never know it. May your life be as boring
 As men can make it but, dear, may you sleep.