There are no stars tonight

今夜没有星星

But those of memory.

只有回忆之星。

Yet how much room for memory there is

可是细雨缠绵下

In the loose girdle of soft rain.

多少事让人回忆。

There is even room enough

甚至还让人想起

For the letters of my mother's mother,

我母亲的母亲

Elizabeth,

伊丽莎白写的信，

That have been pressed so long

在屋顶下的角落

Into a corner of the roof

塞了多少年

That they are brown and soft,

早已发黄变脆，

And liable to melt as snow.

随时会化掉，像雪。

Over the greatness of such space

时间那么遥远

Steps must be gentle.

脚步必须放轻。

It is all hung by an invisible white hair.

信悬于一根看不见的白发，

It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

颤抖，像白桦树枝在风中织网。

And I ask myself:

我问自己：

"Are your fingers long enough to play

“你的手指那么长

Old keys that are but echoes:

能弹已成回音的琴键吗：

Is the silence strong enough

寂静的力量那么强

To carry back the music to its source

能把音乐带回声源

And back to you again

再传回给你

As though to her?"

就像传给她？”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand

但是我还得拉着外婆的手

Through much of what she would not understand;

领她穿过那么多她不懂的东西；

And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof

我迟疑。雨依旧打着屋顶

With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

那声音像怜悯的笑，很轻。