今夜没有星星

There are no stars tonight

只有回忆之星。

But those of memory.

可是细雨缠绵下

Yet how much room for memory there is

多少事让人回忆。

In the loose girdle of soft rain.

甚至还让人想起

There is even room enough

我母亲的母亲

For the letters of my mother's mother,

伊丽莎白写的信，

Elizabeth,

在屋顶下的角落

That have been pressed so long

塞了多少年

Into a corner of the roof

早已发黄变脆，

That they are brown and soft,

随时会化掉，像雪。

And liable to melt as snow.

时间那么遥远

Over the greatness of such space

脚步必须放轻。

Steps must be gentle.

信悬于一根看不见的白发，

It is all hung by an invisible white hair.

颤抖，像白桦树枝在风中织网。

It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

我问自己：

And I ask myself:

“你的手指那么长

"Are your fingers long enough to play

能弹已成回音的琴键吗：

Old keys that are but echoes:

寂静的力量那么强

Is the silence strong enough

能把音乐带回声源

To carry back the music to its source

再传回给你

And back to you again

就像传给她？”

As though to her?"

但是我还得拉着外婆的手

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand

领她穿过那么多她不懂的东西；

Through much of what she would not understand;

我迟疑。雨依旧打着屋顶

And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof

那声音像怜悯的笑，很轻。

With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.