某天那个房间，一只小老鼠。

One day in that room, a small rat.

两天后，一条蛇。

Two days later, a snake.

看到我进来，

Who, seeing me enter,

它迅速地将它长条纹的

whipped the long stripe of his

身体缩到床底下，

body under the bed,

然后蜷着，像只温顺的宠物。

then curled like a docile house-pet.

我不知道它们是怎么进来或出去的。

I don’t know how either came or left.

后来，手电筒也找不到什么。

Later, the flashlight found nothing.

我守望了一年，

For a year I watched

仿佛有什么东西——恐惧？欢喜？悲伤？——

as something—terror? happiness? grief?—

进入到我的身体又离开了。

entered and then left my body.

不知道它是怎么进来的，

Not knowing how it came in,

不知道它是怎么出去的。

Not knowing how it went out.

它垂在词语够不着的地方。

It hung where words could not reach it.

它睡在光线照不到的地方。

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,

既不是肉欲分子也不是苦行僧。

neither sensualist nor ascetic.

我们的生命里有许多

There are openings in our lives

我们全然不知的开口。

of which we know nothing.

穿过它们，

Through them

那悬着铃铛的兽群随意而行，

the belled herds travel at will,

长腿，饥渴，覆着异域的尘土。

long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.