It is not the moon, I tell you.

我告诉你：不是月亮。

It is these flowers

而是这些花

lighting the yard.

照亮了庭院。

I hate them.

我痛恨他们。

I hate them as I hate sex,

我痛恨他们正如我痛恨性，

the man’s mouth

那男人的嘴

sealing my mouth, the man’s

它封住了我的嘴，那男人的

paralyzing body—

身体，它让人瘫软——

and the cry that always escapes,

那总是躲闪的叫喊，

the low, humiliating

那下流的，让人羞辱的

premise of union—

结合的前提——

In my mind tonight

今夜在我的心里

I hear the question and pursuing answer

我听着质问，和萦绕不去的答案

fused in one sound

融化为一个声音，

that mounts and mounts and then

它上升，上升，然后

is split into the old selves,

被劈为许多陈旧的自我，

the tired antagonisms. Do you see?

疲惫的相互对抗。你看到了吗？

We were made fools of.

我们都被嘲弄。

And the scent of mock orange

而山梅花的香味

drifts through the window.

从窗户飘入。

How can I rest?

我怎么能休息？

How can I be content

我怎么能满足

when there is still

当这个世界上

that odor in the world?

仍然有那香味？