像千万人一样，我有正当的自傲，且不止如此，

Like thousands I took just pride and more than just,

擦几根火柴，让自己的血液沸腾；

struck matches that brought my blood to a boil;

把河水点着的诀窍，我也记住了几个——

I memorized the tricks to set the river on fire--

但不知为何我从未写过可以回顾的东西。

somehow never wrote something to go back to.

也许我可以说，塑料花我不玩了，

Can I suppose I am finished with wax flowers

我已在帕纳索斯山的小坡上挣得了一块草地……

and have earned my grass on the minor slopes of Parnassus...

无法制造出蜂巢，除非一只蜜蜂

No honeycomb is built without a bee

一格一格地添、一圈一圈地加，

adding circle to circle, cell to cell,

一座蜂蜡与蜂蜜的陵墓——

the wax and honey of a mausoleum--

这圆形拱顶证明建造者还活着；

this round dome proves its maker is alive;

这虫子的尸骨泡在蜂蜜中生存，

the corpse of the insect lives embalmed in honey,

祈祷它易腐的作品会长存不朽，

prays that its perishable work live long

让偏爱甜食的熊亵渎为口腹之欲——

enough for the sweet tooth bear to desecrate--

这本打开的书……我打开的棺材。

this open book...my open coffin.