Your poems are a dark city centre.

你的诗歌是一座黑暗城市的中心。

Your novels, your stories, your journals, are suburbs

你的小说、你的故事、你的日记、你的信件，是这座

Of this big city.

庞大城市的郊区。

The hotels are lit like office blocks all night

旅店像办公大楼一样通宵明亮

With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It’s at night

挤满了学者、牧师、朝圣者。在夜里

Sometimes I drive through. I just find

有时我驱车穿过。开着车，

Myself driving through, going slow, simply

缓慢前行，我发现自己其实仅仅是

Roaming in my own darkness, pondering

在自身的黑暗之中徘徊，回想着

What you did. Nearly always

你所做的事情。我几乎总能

I glimpse you - at some crossing,

一眼瞥见你——在某个十字路口，

Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.

迷惑地盯着上空，60多岁。

The crowd piles around you. You stand stock still.

你周围是熙攘的人群。你一动不动地站着。

Your face, under the green or orange light,

在绿灯或者黄灯下，你的脸，

A desert Indian’s, wild, bewildered.

像沙漠印第安人的面孔，荒凉而不知所措。

You want to ask something but you can’t.

你想问些什么但你不能开口。

You stare into every face

你注视着每一张脸

Trying to recognize somebody.

试图认出某个人。

They ignore you. Then the light goes red

他们不理会你。而后灯光变红

And they all surge past you.

他们都从你身边汹涌而去。

Then you see me in my car, staring at you.

而后你看见我在车中，望着你。

I see you thinking: ought I to know him?

我知道你在想：我应该认识他吗？

I see you frown. I see you trying

我知道你在皱眉。我知道你在努力

To remember - or suddenly not to remember.

去回忆——或者突然间，努力去忘记。