A Chinese Nightingale

 

From this window,
it is a patch of sky, up high, a cloud floating.
Beneath its shadow, poplar trees
stand tall in rows; leaves already fallen,
thin branches frame tiny grids.

Inside: cold like an abandoned well,
deep, moldy. Winds blow in
and dangle empty webs.
By the window,
the bird sings his only song,
his voice drained like rustling leaves.

I approach, palms baited with
golden grains.
Come, take some.
I coo.

He turns.
I catch my own shadow,
too heavy to lift.



从这个窗口看出去,
一小片天空,很高处,一片云漂浮。
它的阴影下面,白杨一行行
静立; 叶子都已落去,
纤薄的枝桠框构着细小的窗格。

里面:冰冷如一个废弃的水井,
深处布满 青苔。风吹进来
晃动着空空的蛛网。

窗台边
一只鸟在低唱他唯一的一曲,
声音嘶哑似沙沙作响的树叶。

我走近,伸出我的手掌
带去金色的颗粒
作为贵重的诱饵-
来吧,拿去。
我喃语。

他转身。
我看见我自己的影子,
如此沉重,无法拾起。

 

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