The year’s doors open
like those of language,
toward the unknown.
Last night you told me:
                                        tomorrow
we shall have to think up signs,
sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan
on the double page
of day and paper.
Tomorrow, we shall have to invent,
once more,
the reality of this world.

I opened my eyes late.
For a second of a second
I felt what the Aztec felt,
on the crest of the promontory,
lying in wait
for the time’s uncertain return
through cracks in the horizon.

But no, the year had returned.
It filled all the room
and my look almost touched it.
Time, with no help from us,
had placed
in exactly the same order as yesterday
houses in the empty street,
snow on the houses,
silence on the snow.

You were beside me,
still asleep.
The day had invented you
but you hadn’t yet accepted
being invented by the day.
––Nor possibly by being invented, either.
You were in another day.

You were beside me
and I saw you, like the snow,
asleep among appearances.
Time, with no help from us,
invents houses, streets, trees
and sleeping women.

When you open your eyes
we’ll walk, once more,
among the hours and their inventions.
We’ll walk among appearances
and bear witness to time and its conjugations.
Perhaps we’ll open the day’s doors.
And then we shall enter the unknown.

Translated from the Spanish by Elizabeth Bishop with the author

读到这首诗很偶然。其实是三月在亚马逊买墨水(J.Herbin Perle Noire)的时候,为了免运费顺便买的。收到之后并没有立刻开始看,因为学校里在读的书也很多。昨天上课前突然想起,翻到了这首,非常喜欢。网上只有 Bishop 的译文,我个人更喜欢书里的 Weinberg 译文。不过差别并不大。