在该睡觉的时间，我小孙子的呼吸，

At bedtime, my grandson’s breath

像往复的锉刀，

rasps in and out of fragile lungs.

被脆弱的肺挤进挤出。

Holding the nebulizer mask

在他的口鼻上，

over his nose and mouth,

戴着雾化器喷头。

I rock him on my lap and hum

我把他放在膝头轻摇，

a lullaby to comfort him.

哼摇篮曲

希望他的痛少些。

The nebulizer hisses as steroids

stream into his struggling chest,

雾化器嘶嘶叫着，

and suddenly he also starts to hum,

将类固醇注入他挣扎的胸膛。

his infant voice rising and falling

他突然也开始哼唱，

on the same few notes—some hymn

婴儿的声音起起落落，

he must have learned while in the womb

虽然只有几个音符——这旋律

or carried here from where he was before—

他在子宫里应当已经熟识，

a kind of plainsong, holy and hypnotic

或者来自他更早的本源——

in the dark.

这神圣的让人入眠的素歌，

在那黑暗中响起。