有一天在那个房间里，一只小老鼠。

One day in that room, a small rat.

两天后，一条蛇。

Two days later, a snake.

谁，看到我进入，

Who, seeing me enter,

鞭打他的长条纹

whipped the long stripe of his

床下的身体，

body under the bed,

像一个温顺的家养宠物一样卷曲。

then curled like a docile house-pet.

我不知道是怎么来的，还是怎么离开的。

I don’t know how either came or left.

后来，手电筒什么也没发现。

Later, the flashlight found nothing.

看了一年

For a year I watched

作为某种东西 -- 恐怖？幸福？悲伤？

as something—terror? happiness? grief?—

进入，然后离开我的身体。

entered and then left my body.

不知道它是怎么进来的，

Not knowing how it came in,

不知道它是如何熄灭的。

Not knowing how it went out.

它挂在言语无法到达的地方。

It hung where words could not reach it.

它睡在光无法去的地方。

It slept where light could not go.

它的气味既不是蛇也不是老鼠，

Its scent was neither snake nor rat,

既不是感性主义者，也不是苦行僧。

neither sensualist nor ascetic.

我们的生活中有缺口

There are openings in our lives

对此我们一无所知。

of which we know nothing.

通过他们

Through them

大肚腩群随意行进，

the belled herds travel at will,

长腿的，口渴的，浑身是外国灰尘。

long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.