From this window,
it is a patch of sky, up high, a cloud floating.
Beneath its shadow, poplar trees
stand tall in rows; leaves already fallen,
thin branches frame tiny grids.
Inside: cold like an abandoned well,
deep, moldy. Winds blow in
and dangle empty webs.
By the window,
the bird sings his only song,
his voice drained like rustling leaves.
I approach, palms baited with
golden grains.
Come, take some.
I coo.
He turns.
I catch my own shadow,
too heavy to lift.
从这个窗口看出去，
一小片天空，很高处，一片云漂浮。
它的阴影下面，白杨一行行
静立; 叶子都已落去，
纤薄的枝桠框构着细小的窗格。
里面：冰冷如一个废弃的水井，
深处布满 青苔。风吹进来
晃动着空空的蛛网。
窗台边
一只鸟在低唱他唯一的一曲，
声音嘶哑似沙沙作响的树叶。
我走近，伸出我的手掌
带去金色的颗粒
作为贵重的诱饵-
来吧，拿去。
我喃语。
他转身。
我看见我自己的影子，
如此沉重，无法拾起。