Nhân đang cầm trên tay cuốn The World Doesn't End mua hộ bạn kia, chép ra mấy bài vậy. Ai đọc thì đọc ai không đọc thì thôi:) chứ dịch thơ thì xin kiếu (mà dịch ra chắc đã ai đọc?:)
The city has fallen. We came to the window of a house drawn by a madman. The setting sun shone on a few abandoned machines of futility. "I remember," someone said, "how in ancient times one could turn a wolf in to a human and then lecture it to one's heart's content."
The hundred-year-old china doll's head the sea washes up on its gray beach. One would like to know the story. One would like to make it up, make up many stories. It's been so long in the sea, the eyes and nose have been erased, its faint smile is even fainter. With the night coming, one would like to see oneself walking the empty beach and bending down to it.
I was stolen by the gypsies. My parents stole me right back. Then the gypsies stole me again. This went on for some time. One minute I was in the caravan suckling the dark teat of my new mother, the next I sat at the long dining room table eating my breakfast with a silver spoon.
It was the first day of spring. One of my fathers was singing in the bathtub; the other one was painting a live sparrow the colors of a tropical bird.
Đúng kiểu thơ mình thích.