现在他们分开躺着，睡在各自的床上，

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,

他带着一本书，灯光亮到很晚，

He with a book, keeping the light on late,

她像个女孩梦见了童年，

She like a girl dreaming of childhood,

所有的人都在别处——他们仿佛在等着

All men elsewhere – it is as if they wait

什么新鲜事儿：他手中的书未读，

Some new event: the book he holds unread,

她的眼盯着头顶的阴影。

Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

像遇难船只的残骸从往日的激情中浮出，

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,

他们躺着，多么平静。他们几乎不曾接触，

How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,

即便接触也像一种忏悔，

Or if they do, it is like a confession

不带一点感情——或者太多。

Of having little feeling – or too much.

贞洁直视着他们，像一个终点，

Chastity faces them, a destination

他们终其一生都在为之准备。

For which their whole lives were a preparation.

奇异地分开，又奇异地紧紧相连，

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,

沉默像一条线在他们之间穿系，

Silence between them like a thread to hold

却不曾缠绕。时间本身就是一支羽毛

And not wind in. And time itself’s a feather

温柔地抚摩着他们。他们知道他们老了吗，

Touching them gently. Do they know they’re old,

这两个是我父亲和我母亲的人，

These two who are my father and my mother

我曾从他们的火中而来，现在它是不是已经变冷？

Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?