Mexico City, dusk,

去年他眼睜睜地看著

he watches wide eyed

傍晚的一場大火

as a great conflagration

燒掉了他在墨西哥城的家

devours his house, his life’s

燒掉了他一生的珍藏

possessions, the years

那多年的手稿和未完成的詩

of manuscripts, poems finished

那古老的墨西哥面具

and unfinished, the Aztec mask,

和畢加索的繪畫

the Picasso, chairs

那祖傳的家具和童年以來

of his ancestors, photos from childhood,

所有的照片、信件

the joyous dome, its ribbed beams and rafters,

那歡樂的拱頂，肋骨似的

everything turning to ash

屋椽，一切的一切

in a whirling column of fire.

在一場沖天而起的火中

化為灰燼

The flames blaze on,

charring night,

那火仍在燒

lick the black wings

在黑暗中燒

soaring from his poems,

燒焦了從他詩中起飛的群鳥的翅膀

consume the leaden hours,

燒掉了一個人的前生

human illusion, human desire,

燒掉了多年來的負擔

wish and ambition,

也燒掉了虛無和灰燼本身

emptiness and ash—

人生的虛妄、愛欲

all crackling in a fire

和未了的雄心

come late in life,

都在一場晚年的火中劈啪作響

as the firemen shout in the choking dark,

那救火的人

fleeting shadows.

仍在嗆人的黑暗中呼喊

如影子一般跑動

So late, so late

but now set free

現在他自由了

from long affliction,

像從一場漫長的拷打中解脫出來

Octavio Paz will sit once more

他重又在巴黎的街頭坐下

beside a Paris street,

落葉在腳下無聲地翻捲

dry leaves scuttling silent at his feet,

而他的額頭，被一道更遙遠的光照亮

a far off light

dawning on his brow.