谁会明白我们？

　　致雅罗斯拉夫.塞弗特

　　加里.索托 陈青山译

　　作为一分钱,它冷酷而又苦涩

　　一列火车上，我呼啸着奔向公墓

　　我要去拜访那些死亡

　　拜访那些通过草，通过我，通过预料

　　谁会到来问你是谁的。残存着的死亡

　　冷呵！火车里冷冰冰的煤货。卖票人

　　松散的纽扣如同圣人的十字架

　　他的疯狂穿孔器，穿碎那些零票

　　窗璃，看似残雪点映的石板。牛群

　　有刺的栅栏璃嵌上深白色

　　民房笼罩于黑暗中。一个无盖的

　　运货火车和一匹发光的马

　　这是我的国度。白得无一丝言语

　　万籁寂寥的屋子，马不前行

　　马儿，不闯进新的阴影。栅栏柱

　　是那些人，用牛的茹苦

　　喂养那些当官的。我一无所有

　　准确地说。我喜欢巴黎

　　喜欢写作。“永远生活在巴黎”

　　我喜欢雅典和笔的耕耘

　　“最伟大的先知之书仍在她的手上”

　　蝙蝠迷住了我

　　粉红的丁香叶茎

　　我期望在英国的的一场雨里

　　盛开一把伞。点着烟

　　不让自己逃离。喝酒

　　叫个朋友一块在屋里游戏

　　在最渺小的玩笑中踩踏我的脚

　　这是我的国度

　　我走一些。就睡

　　我在我的房里吃，我在我的房里读

　　一个女人便闪现于脑海

　　想起旧日。打火机在战前，就买了

　　美丽呵，眼泪流进了滋养它的根

　　火车。邪恶的红色的煤

　　我们都是乘客。老的小的一般模样

　　谁会明白我们?当我们通过草残存

　　Who Will Know Us?

　　by Gary Soto

　　for Jaroslav Seifert

　　It is cold, bitter as a penny.

　　I'm on a train, rocking toward the cemetery

　　To visit the dead who now

　　Breathe through the grass, through me,

　　Through relatives who will come

　　And ask, Where are you?

　　Cold. The train with its cargo

　　Of icy coal, the conductor

　　With his loose buttons like heads of crucified saints,

　　His mad puncher biting zeros through tickets.

　　The window that looks onto its slate of old snow. Cows. The barbed fences throat-deep in white. Farm houses dark, one wagon With a shivering horse. This is my country, white with no words, House of silence, horse that won't budge To cast a new shadow. Fence posts That are the people, spotted cows the machinery That feed Officials. I have nothing Good to say. I love Paris And write, "Long Live Paris!" I love Athens and write, "The great book is still in her lap." Bats have intrigued me, The pink vein in a lilac. I've longed to open an umbrella In an English rain, smoke And not give myself away, Drink and call a friend across the room, Stomp my feet at the smallest joke. But this is my country. I walk a lot, sleep. I eat in my room, read in my room, And make up women in my head ― Nostalgia, the cigarette lighter from before the war, Beauty, tears that flow inward to feed its roots. The train. Red coal of evil. We are its passengers, the old and young alike. Who will know us when we breathe through the grass?