有一个冬天我生活在北方，一个人

One winter I lived north, alone

很轻松，用梦想把自己

and effortless, dreaming myself

带回过去。我想，

into the past. Perhaps, I thought,

语言可能会填充隐私的亏欠。

words could replenish privacy.

在外面，一辆红色的自行车

Outside, a red bicycle froze

被严霜定格，它白色的严整

into form, made the world falser

让世界更快地前行。秋收之后

in its white austerity. So much

发生了如此多的事情：月亮

happens after harvest: the moon

表现出新的绝技：屠杀，

performing novelty: slaughter,

大雪。此一时

snow. One hour the same

和彼一时相同，我握着自己的手，

as the next, I held my hands

或者握着白雪，我就像一个雕塑，

or held the snow. I was like sculpture,

忘记着，或者，记忆着

forgetting or, perhaps, remembering

每一件事。白雪上的红色翅膀，血红的想法

everything. Red wings in the snow,

在我和自己重燃的的战争中

red thoughts ablaze in the war

炽热发光。我恨这个世界

I was having with myself again.

我恨自己的每件事，即使现在

Everything I hate about the world

也在字字闪现，就好像它是

I hate about myself, even now

自然的律法。它诉说雪地上野鹿的轻盈，走出寒冷，

writing as if this were a law

看到更多的银杏树裸露在乞丐的树丛。

of nature. Say there were deer

它说我并不是唯一看到或者听到树木的人，

fleet in the snow, walking out

它们的存在远比我的噪音更伟大。

the cold, and more gingkoes

可能未来是我从蜡烛上掐下的微小火焰。

bare in the beggar’s grove. Say

开始时，我会燃烧。然后，麻木。为什么每个冬天

I was not the only one who saw

都会更冷，更绝决？

or heard the trees, their diffidence

greater than my noise. Perhaps

the future is a tiny flame

I’ll nick from a candle. First, I’m burning.

Then, numb. Why must every winter

grow colder, and more sure?