去年他眼睜睜地看著

Mexico City, dusk,

傍晚的一場大火

he watches wide eyed

燒掉了他在墨西哥城的家

as a great conflagration

燒掉了他一生的珍藏

devours his house, his life’s

那多年的手稿和未完成的詩

possessions, the years

那古老的墨西哥面具

of manuscripts, poems finished

和畢加索的繪畫

and unfinished, the Aztec mask,

那祖傳的家具和童年以來

the Picasso, chairs

所有的照片、信件

of his ancestors, photos from childhood,

那歡樂的拱頂，肋骨似的

the joyous dome, its ribbed beams and rafters,

屋椽，一切的一切

everything turning to ash

在一場沖天而起的火中

in a whirling column of fire.

化為灰燼

The flames blaze on,

那火仍在燒

charring night,

在黑暗中燒

lick the black wings

燒焦了從他詩中起飛的群鳥的翅膀

soaring from his poems,

燒掉了一個人的前生

consume the leaden hours,

燒掉了多年來的負擔

human illusion, human desire,

也燒掉了虛無和灰燼本身

wish and ambition,

人生的虛妄、愛欲

emptiness and ash—

和未了的雄心

all crackling in a fire

都在一場晚年的火中劈啪作響

come late in life,

那救火的人

as the firemen shout in the choking dark,

仍在嗆人的黑暗中呼喊

fleeting shadows.

如影子一般跑動

So late, so late

現在他自由了

but now set free

像從一場漫長的拷打中解脫出來

from long affliction,

他重又在巴黎的街頭坐下

Octavio Paz will sit once more

落葉在腳下無聲地翻捲

beside a Paris street,

而他的額頭，被一道更遙遠的光照亮

dry leaves scuttling silent at his feet,

a far off light

dawning on his brow.