One winter I lived north, alone

有一个冬天我生活在北方，一个人

and effortless, dreaming myself

很轻松，用梦想把自己

into the past. Perhaps, I thought,

带回过去。我想，

words could replenish privacy.

语言可能会填充隐私的亏欠。

Outside, a red bicycle froze

在外面，一辆红色的自行车

into form, made the world falser

被严霜定格，它白色的严整

in its white austerity. So much

让世界更快地前行。秋收之后

happens after harvest: the moon

发生了如此多的事情：月亮

performing novelty: slaughter,

表现出新的绝技：屠杀，

snow. One hour the same

大雪。此一时

as the next, I held my hands

和彼一时相同，我握着自己的手，

or held the snow. I was like sculpture,

或者握着白雪，我就像一个雕塑，

forgetting or, perhaps, remembering

忘记着，或者，记忆着

everything. Red wings in the snow,

每一件事。白雪上的红色翅膀，血红的想法

red thoughts ablaze in the war

在我和自己重燃的的战争中

I was having with myself again.

炽热发光。我恨这个世界

Everything I hate about the world

我恨自己的每件事，即使现在

I hate about myself, even now

也在字字闪现，就好像它是

writing as if this were a law

自然的律法。它诉说雪地上野鹿的轻盈，走出寒冷，

of nature. Say there were deer

看到更多的银杏树裸露在乞丐的树丛。

fleet in the snow, walking out

它说我并不是唯一看到或者听到树木的人，

the cold, and more gingkoes

它们的存在远比我的噪音更伟大。

bare in the beggar’s grove. Say

可能未来是我从蜡烛上掐下的微小火焰。

I was not the only one who saw

开始时，我会燃烧。然后，麻木。为什么每个冬天

or heard the trees, their diffidence

都会更冷，更绝决？

greater than my noise. Perhaps

the future is a tiny flame

I’ll nick from a candle. First, I’m burning.

Then, numb. Why must every winter

grow colder, and more sure?