評論
打印
I am turning sixty five years of age.
我快65歲了。
In two weeks I will be sixty five years old.
兩周內我就65歲了。
I can accumulate time and lose time?
沒有時間可以失去了？
I sit here writing in the dark, I can't see to change these penciled words.
我坐著寫著，看不清寫下的字，也無法改變這些鉛筆寫下的詞。
Just like my mother, alone, bent over her writing.
就像我的母親，孤身一人，字歪歪扭扭。
Just like my father, bent over his writing.
就像我的父親，字曲曲折折。
Alone but for me watching.
孑然一身，只有我看著他。
She got out of bed wrapped herself in a blanket and wrote down the strange sounds father,
她坐下床，用毯子包著自己，寫下了這些名為“父親”的發音奇特的字符，
who was dead, was intoning to her.
去世的父親吟誦著這些字符。
He was reading aloud calligraphy that he'd written, carved with ink brush on his tombstone.
他大聲讀著自己寫下的字，那些字用筆墨刻在了他的墓碑上。
She wasn't writing in answer, she wasn't writing a letter.
她沒有回應，沒有再寫一封信。
Who was she writing to? Nobody.
她在寫給誰？沒有人。
This well-deep outpouring is not for anything,
這種深切的抒發不是為了什么，
yet we have to put into exact words what we are given to see, hear, know.
然而我們需要賦予它準確的詞語來描繪我們看到，聽到和知道的。
Mother's eyesight blurred, she saw trash as flowers.
母親的眼睛老花了，她把垃圾看成了花，
Oh, how very beautiful!
哦，多么漂亮啊！
She was lucky, seeing beauty.
她很幸運，看到了美好的事物。
Living in beauty whether or not it was there.
活在美好的世界里，不論它是真是假。
