在星期日，我父亲同样早早地起床

Sundays too my father got up early

在蓝黑色的寒意中穿上他的衣服，

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

然后用由于在工作日的冷天气里

then with cracked hands that ached

劳作而变得皲裂、疼痛的双手生起

from labor in the weekday weather made

熊熊烈火并把炉火封好。从没有人感谢他。

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

我醒来，听见寒冷裂开，破碎。

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

当房间变得暖融融时，他会呼唤我，

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

而我会慢腾腾地起床，穿衣，

and slowly I would rise and dress,

害怕这所房子里常年爆发的愤怒，

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

我十分冷淡地对他说话，

Speaking indifferently to him,

他已经驱散了寒冷

who had driven out the cold

还把我优质的鞋子擦得光亮。

and polished my good shoes as well.

我知道什么呢，我知道什么呢

What did I know, what did I know

关于爱的简陋朴素且孤寂的办公室？

of love’s austere and lonely offices?