There can be no canticles, matins, evensong

没有赞美诗，没有黎明颂，没有晚祷歌

no waiting for blue irises, cherries to come along

没有期待中的蓝鸢尾，红樱桃跟随他们

in their own season, with four seasons gone.

进入自己的季节，当四季已经逝去。

How bravely you bear witness, testify tight-lipped,

需要多大的勇气，你目击，见证，绷紧嘴唇，

with scribbles on wings, inscribing verses

你在机翼上涂写，在池塘的绿色浮沫上

on the green scum of ponds, passing hearses

刻上诗句，路过的灵车

pattering your lines. And your words creep

拍击着你的诗行。你的词句爬进

into the cracks in syllables fractured by shells;

被炮弹打断的音节的裂缝；

then steal from town squares swung tongues of bells.

偷偷拿走小镇广场摇摆的钟舌。

Following the Stations of each patriot’s Cross,

沿着每一个爱国者奔赴十字架的道路，

you throw lifelines across pages to forestall loss.

你在诗页间投下生命线以避免沉沦。

The light, with no warning, has been burgled by dark.

光明，毫无征兆地，被黑暗掠走。

There is no war, the Kremlin insists, trench-talk

这里没有战争，克里姆林宫坚称，

gagged, missile smoke dismissed as lengths,

战壕里的人被禁声，导弹的尾烟

for cradles, of organic cotton, bombs

被轻描淡写成摇篮里的有机长绒棉，

just the claps of an audience at a show. Yet –

而炸弹只是观众的掌声。然而——

over spat-out cherry stones, your poems will go on

在吐出的樱桃核之上，你的诗篇将要继续

daring the unsayable, with four seasons gone.

挑战那不可言说，当四季已经逝去。