In Rainy September
In rainy September, when leaves grow down to the dark,
I put my forehead down to the damp, seaweed-smelling sand.
The time has come. I have put off choosing for years,
perhaps whole lives. The fern has no choice but to live;
for this crime it receives earth, water, and night.
We close the door. “I have no claim on you.”
Dusk comes. “The love I have had with you is enough.”
We know we could live apart from one another.
The sheldrake floats apart from the flock.
The oaktree puts out leaves alone on the lonely hillside.
Men and women before us have accomplished this.
I would see you, and you me, once a year.
We would be two kernels, and not be planted.
We stay in the room, door closed, lights out.
I weep with you without shame and without honor.
多雨的九月多雨的九月，樹葉越長越瘦，日漸灰暗，
我將前額俯伏在潮濕的沙灘，海藻腥澀。
時(shí)機(jī)已經(jīng)到來。我已將選擇遷延多年，
或許已是幾生幾世。除了活著，蕨菜沒有選擇；
因?yàn)檫@一缺憾，它承接著水、土以及黑夜。
我們關(guān)上門�！拔覍δ阋粺o所求”。
黃昏來臨�！澳芟碛心愕膼郏@已足夠”。
我們知道我們可以天各一方。
畢竟，秋沙鴨會(huì)離群孤飛。
橡樹在孤山腳下徑自將葉子鋪展。
在我們之前，男男女女都能做到這一點(diǎn)。
我會(huì)去見你，你也能來看我，一年一次。
我們將是兩顆脫殼的谷粒，不是為了播種。
我們蟄伏在房間里，門關(guān)閉著，燈熄滅了。
我陪你一同抽泣，沒有羞恥，顧不得尊嚴(yán)。