Sundays too my father got up early

在星期日，我父亲同样早早地起床

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

在蓝黑色的寒意中穿上他的衣服，

then with cracked hands that ached

然后用由于在工作日的冷天气里

from labor in the weekday weather made

劳作而变得皲裂、疼痛的双手生起

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

熊熊烈火并把炉火封好。从没有人感谢他。

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

我醒来，听见寒冷裂开，破碎。

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

当房间变得暖融融时，他会呼唤我，

and slowly I would rise and dress,

而我会慢腾腾地起床，穿衣，

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

害怕这所房子里常年爆发的愤怒，

Speaking indifferently to him,

我十分冷淡地对他说话，

who had driven out the cold

他已经驱散了寒冷

and polished my good shoes as well.

还把我优质的鞋子擦得光亮。

What did I know, what did I know

我知道什么呢，我知道什么呢

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

关于爱的简陋朴素且孤寂的办公室？