九月了，一股凉爽的微风

It is September, and a cool breeze

从前方某处吹来正在转动那些叶片；

from somewhere ahead is turning the blades;

夜晚，这台风扇的微弱的闪光

night, and the slow flash of the fan

那最后的光在我们与黑暗之间。

the last light between us and the darkness.

灰尘开始聚积在叶片上，

Dust has begun to collect on the blades,

干草机的灰尘来自远方的田野，

haymaker’s dust from distant fields,

灰尘飘向城区乘着乌鸦们漆黑的

dust riding to town on the night-black wings

翅膀，一层灰尘的薄霜

of the crows, a thin frost of dust

当地球旋转时粘住它的。

which clings to the earth as it spins.

这台风扇已带我们穿过，

The fan has brought us through,

它闪亮的叶片仿佛轮船的螺旋桨

its shiny blades like the screw of a ship

推进它的航道穿过夏天——

that has pushed its way through summer—

切花在它的尾波中翻腾，

cut flowers awash in its wake,

七月死寂的马尾藻海

the stagnant Sargasso Sea of July

远远落在我们身后。此刻，我们歇息，

far behind us. For the moment, we rest,

我们躺在房屋黑暗的船壳里，

we lie in the dark hull of the house,

我们摇晃在海槽里靠近

we rock in the troughs off the shore

十月的岸边，发动机在冷却，

of October, the engine cooling,

风扇叶片懒洋洋地转动着，但发着光。

the fan blades so lazily turning, but burning.