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I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,
過去我喜歡牧羊人咖啡,
往我那舊搪瓷壺里倒入一杯咖啡粉,
再加三杯水及一爐火,
and when it’s hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.
當(dāng)咖啡燒熱,沸騰冒泡,
加半杯冷水
讓咖啡粉沉底。
It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods all those years ago.
許多年前,當(dāng)我蹲在河堤上那些
魁梧的紅杉下品嘗它時,
味道那么濃,那么苦,那么好。
Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.
有那么一些時日,它幾乎成了我僅有的一切。
有我的狗和我那古怪前衛(wèi)的卡車?yán)锏?br />
幾箱書相伴,我很開心。
But when I think of that posture now,
I can’t help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,
但如今,當(dāng)我想起那個姿勢時,
我便忍不住想到
蜷縮在廢墟中的巴勒斯坦人,
the Afghan shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the monk who can’t go home.
趕著咩咩叫著的羊群的阿富汗牧羊人,
哭著給兒子們送行的寡婦,
無家可歸的僧侶。
There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes.
咖啡的名稱遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)少于
愛的名稱。他們蹲著,邊喝
邊想,等待一切降臨。
