On summer nights the world

夏夜里，世界

moves within earshot

在听力范围内移动，

on the interstate with its swish

在州际公路上，伴随嗖嗖声，

and growl, and occasional siren

隆隆声，偶尔的警笛声

that sends chills through us.

令一阵惊寒漫过我们。

Sometimes, on clear, still nights,

有时，晴朗寂静的夜里，

voices float into our bedroom,

声音飘进我们的卧室，

lunar and fragmented,

微弱而破碎，

as if the sky had let them go

仿佛远在我们出生前，

long before our birth.

天空已发出它们。

In winter we close the windows

冬天，我们关窗

and read Chekhov,

读契诃夫，

nearly weeping for his world.

为他的世界几近流泪。

What luxury, to be so happy

多么奢侈，如此幸福

that we can grieve

我们能为虚构的生命

over imaginary lives.

而悲伤。