詩歌的形式｜Bukowski那首描述俄國暴行的詩

I read (and I no longer know which side
did it) that in the Russian revolution
they'd catch a man, cut him open, nail
part of his intestine to a tree
then force him to run around and around
that tree, rolling his intestines about
the trunk. I'm no sadist. I'd probably
weep if I had to see it, probably go mad.
but I do know that we are much more than
we think we are
even though the romantics
concentrate upon the hate/and or/love of
the heart.

我讀到過（已經不記得是哪派
做的了）在俄國革命時
他們會抓一個人，剖開他的肚子，將他的
一段腸子釘到樹上
然後強迫他繞著那棵樹
一圈圈地跑，他的腸子就一圈圈地
卷在了樹幹上。我不是個施虐狂。若不得不看，
我可能會哭，要麼大概會瘋掉。
但我知道，
即使浪漫主義
總傾注於內心的愛恨，
我們也比我們自己所以為的那麼些斤兩
要沈重太多。

listen, you write because it's the last machinegun
on the last hill.
you write because you're a bird sitting on a wire, then
suddenly your wings flap and your little dumb ass is
up in the air.
you write because the madhouse sits there belching and
farting, heavy with minds and bodies, you write because
you fear ultimate madness...