评论
打印
I am turning sixty five years of age.
我快65岁了。
In two weeks I will be sixty five years old.
两周内我就65岁了。
I can accumulate time and lose time?
没有时间可以失去了？
I sit here writing in the dark, I can't see to change these penciled words.
我坐着写着，看不清写下的字，也无法改变这些铅笔写下的词。
Just like my mother, alone, bent over her writing.
就像我的母亲，孤身一人，字歪歪扭扭。
Just like my father, bent over his writing.
就像我的父亲，字曲曲折折。
Alone but for me watching.
孑然一身，只有我看着他。
She got out of bed wrapped herself in a blanket and wrote down the strange sounds father,
她坐下床，用毯子包着自己，写下了这些名为“父亲”的发音奇特的字符，
who was dead, was intoning to her.
去世的父亲吟诵着这些字符。
He was reading aloud calligraphy that he'd written, carved with ink brush on his tombstone.
他大声读着自己写下的字，那些字用笔墨刻在了他的墓碑上。
She wasn't writing in answer, she wasn't writing a letter.
她没有回应，没有再写一封信。
Who was she writing to? Nobody.
她在写给谁？没有人。
This well-deep outpouring is not for anything,
这种深切的抒发不是为了什么，
yet we have to put into exact words what we are given to see, hear, know.
然而我们需要赋予它准确的词语来描绘我们看到，听到和知道的。
Mother's eyesight blurred, she saw trash as flowers.
母亲的眼睛老花了，她把垃圾看成了花，
Oh, how very beautiful!
哦，多么漂亮啊！
She was lucky, seeing beauty.
她很幸运，看到了美好的事物。
Living in beauty whether or not it was there.
活在美好的世界里，不论它是真是假。
