One day in that room, a small rat.

有一天在那个房间里，一只小老鼠。

Two days later, a snake.

两天后，一条蛇。

Who, seeing me enter,

谁，看到我进入，

whipped the long stripe of his

鞭打他的长条纹

body under the bed,

床下的身体，

then curled like a docile house-pet.

像一个温顺的家养宠物一样卷曲。

I don’t know how either came or left.

我不知道是怎么来的，还是怎么离开的。

Later, the flashlight found nothing.

后来，手电筒什么也没发现。

For a year I watched

看了一年

as something—terror? happiness? grief?—

作为某种东西 -- 恐怖？幸福？悲伤？

entered and then left my body.

进入，然后离开我的身体。

Not knowing how it came in,

不知道它是怎么进来的，

Not knowing how it went out.

不知道它是如何熄灭的。

It hung where words could not reach it.

它挂在言语无法到达的地方。

It slept where light could not go.

它睡在光无法去的地方。

Its scent was neither snake nor rat,

它的气味既不是蛇也不是老鼠，

neither sensualist nor ascetic.

既不是感性主义者，也不是苦行僧。

There are openings in our lives

我们的生活中有缺口

of which we know nothing.

对此我们一无所知。

Through them

通过他们

the belled herds travel at will,

大肚腩群随意行进，

long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.

长腿的，口渴的，浑身是外国灰尘。