没有赞美诗，没有黎明颂，没有晚祷歌

There can be no canticles, matins, evensong

没有期待中的蓝鸢尾，红樱桃跟随他们

no waiting for blue irises, cherries to come along

进入自己的季节，当四季已经逝去。

in their own season, with four seasons gone.

需要多大的勇气，你目击，见证，绷紧嘴唇，

How bravely you bear witness, testify tight-lipped,

你在机翼上涂写，在池塘的绿色浮沫上

with scribbles on wings, inscribing verses

刻上诗句，路过的灵车

on the green scum of ponds, passing hearses

拍击着你的诗行。你的词句爬进

pattering your lines. And your words creep

被炮弹打断的音节的裂缝；

into the cracks in syllables fractured by shells;

偷偷拿走小镇广场摇摆的钟舌。

then steal from town squares swung tongues of bells.

沿着每一个爱国者奔赴十字架的道路，

Following the Stations of each patriot’s Cross,

你在诗页间投下生命线以避免沉沦。

you throw lifelines across pages to forestall loss.

光明，毫无征兆地，被黑暗掠走。

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

这里没有战争，克里姆林宫坚称，

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

战壕里的人被禁声，导弹的尾烟

gagged, missile smoke dismissed as lengths,

被轻描淡写成摇篮里的有机长绒棉，

for cradles, of organic cotton, bombs

而炸弹只是观众的掌声。然而——

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

在吐出的樱桃核之上，你的诗篇将要继续

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

挑战那不可言说，当四季已经逝去。

daring the unsayable, with four seasons gone.