去年在写诗方面，我主要完成了长篇系列组诗《哈城之殇》的创作，经几位师友建议，目前除了两首长诗以外，其它62首诗已可以在网络上看到。这些诗帖发以后，受到好评，一些师友专门撰写了评论文章，于是我萌生了将它译成英文的念头。我认识几位从事诗歌翻译的师友，经联系后有两位朋友帮我翻译了几首（我深知汉译英之难，我的诗仿佛译的难度更大，故只敢给几首让人家帮忙，否则太为难人家了）。余下的怎么办呢，我看到“诗生活网”里有一个“翻译论坛”，便没多想在上面发了一帖，云寻找翻译之能手，并附了四首小诗。山东青岛的李保华先生看到后翻译了一个版本，我让拟出版我这书的出版社的编辑看了一下，说“实不好用”。 著名翻译家杨宗泽先生在“翻译论坛”上看到了我的“难处”并也帮我译了那四首小诗，不料，他的译作帖发后，李先生给我写信，说杨先生抄袭了他的译作，并在“诗生活网”的那个“翻译论坛”上发帖“揭露”这起抄袭事件，这开始着实让我大吃一惊。
我不懂外语，但感觉上决不会出现抄袭之实，因为没有抄袭之源啊——杨先生翻译的时候我并没有将李先生的译本在网络上公布，也没有私下给杨先生看过。杨先生说：“将俩人的译作一起放到网上去，是不是抄袭让懂行的人评议么！”我照办了！
事过一个多月了，现将这四首原诗和俩人的译本一并也帖在这里，供批评——
我的原诗——
《疏漏之音》
圣使吟唱着不同的英雄版本，它们
让死去的岁月活过来、明亮过来、辉煌过来
仿佛，它们已经传颂过了所有能够传颂的话语
它们并不温柔，也不凶恶，它们对音符格外钟情
它们毫无保留地寻找着永恒的介点，它们
让万能的上帝感到惊恐，它们认为不用再避讳神灵
可以为所欲为，但它们惟一的疏漏之音
正是它们最本质的一点：死亡只有一个起点
《涅槃》
蓦然，残忍之响撞入缜密的诗笺
那些陌生而时常感冒的词汇
鲜活，但不顾荣辱。我们议论的国之传统
在尊严拂拭生死的刹那，变得具体
却不能辩认。于是，溅飞的血肉之涅槃
变得熟悉，却再也叫不起孱弱的姓名
《涅槃》（2）
危险蛰伏在岁月的中央。某种灿烂隐蕴在祈祷之庙
一些缄默的神仙心存感激与警惕，却逃避不掉四分五裂
还有某种思想烘烤着罪恣的光芒，那些接受洗礼
仿佛涅槃的生灵，从最嫩的一株草
到最老的一块石，决无高歌的时机吗
我想传统就是这样。光芒所至
匍匐的依然匍匐，佝偻的依然佝偻
它们却与涅槃无关：
它们都活过
它们都将死过
《场景：略微的感觉》(2)
一些被围困的智者，常常在恍惚的夤夜
发出救命的唳号。我发掘了一匹战马的遗赅
品藻它经历过的辉煌，大地变得凝重而格外肃穆
就算此时有天籁之音在空中萦纡
我也不会抬起垂落的眼帘
杨宗泽先生的译本——
Sound Missed
Saints are chanting different heroic hymns, which
Can make the past age revive brightly and make the future glorious
As if they have eulogized what could be eulogized.
They are not gentle nor fierce, but devoted to note
They search, with all heart, for a tip of eternity
They make Almighty God feel alarmed. They think it unnecessary to evade gods any more
And do as they please, but the only sound it has missed
Is just their nature：Death has but one starting point.
Nirvana
Suddenly a cruel sound banged into the meticulous poems
Those strange words that catch cold easily
Became vivid and regardless of honor or disgrace. The traditions we talked about,
At the removal of life by dignity, turns real
but not recognizable. Therefore, the nirvana of those heroic soul
Becomes familiar, yet those frail names are no longer worth mentioning
Nirvana (II)
Danger hides in the center of years. Some kind of splendor hides secretly in a temple for prayer
Some gods keep silent, thankful and watchful, but have to be parted
An idea is warming itself by the evil rays. Just like the baptized dying creatures
Such as a grass or an ancient rock
Didn’t they have even one chance to sing loudly
I think it is what tradition means. In radiance
Those who crawl will crawl as ever, and who stoop will stoop as ever
They are free of nirvana
They used to live
And they will die sooner or later
A Sight: A Little of Emotion
Many sages that was besieged usually cried for help
At the dead of night. I excavated the remains of a battle steed
And reviewed its past glories. The land became imposing and solemn.
Even if the sound of nature is floating in the sky
I won’t lift up my tearful eyelids to have a look
李保华先生的译本——
Sound missed
Saints are chanting different heroic versions, which made
Alive, bright and glorious the deceased age,
As if they eulogized what could be eulogized.
They are not gentle, nor fierce, but devoted to notes
They search, with all heart, for a tip of eternity
They make Almighty God panic. They see no need to evade gods
And can do they please, but the only sound missed
Is their nature. Death has but one starting point.
Nirvana (I)
Abruptly, when a cruel sound dipped into the piece meticulous
Those strange words t often apt to flu
Are now vivid, and free of gain or loss. The traditions we talked,
At the removal of life by dignity, turns real
If not recognizable. The nirvana of swashing flesh
Becomes familiar, yet, the frail names are yet to tell.
Nirvana II
Perils are incubated in the center of age, a splendor recessed in a pray shrine
Some gods are thankful and watchful, unable to let go integration.
An idea is baking guilt and sin. Do those people baptized
Like nirvana, from the most tender grass
To the oldest rock, have no moment to sing aloud?
I think it tradition, as it is. At radiance,
Those who crawled crawl, and who stooped stoop
They are free of nirvana
They all lived
And they would have died.
A sight: a little of something
Many a sage that was besieged, at the dead of night,
Used to whine for help. I excavated remains of a battle steed
And mused over its past glories. The world became imposing and solemn.
I won’t lift up my drooping eyelids
At this celestial sound tortuous in the sky.