Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze..no one ever thanked him.



I'dwake and hear the cold splintering ,breaking.

When the rooms were warm,he'd call,

and slowly i would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house



Speaking indifferemtly to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did i know, what did i know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

那些冬季礼拜天的日子

就算礼拜天，父亲照例起得很早
穿好衣服，天色黛蓝而清冷
一大早就开始忙着活计，一双手
皲裂得厉害，隐隐刺疼
垒起柴火，烧旺炉灶
对此我们早已习惯，从不知感恩

当屋子渐渐暖和的时候
我就会醒来，
就会听见寒冷
被劈啪作响的火苗击破，击穿
然后父亲叫我
我迟迟才肯坐起来穿衣服
心里害怕父亲在那边厢房
慢慢冒上来的火性

跟那个驱走寒冷的人
不冷不热地打个招呼，
然后象往常一样
我擦亮我自己珍爱的鞋子
对于爱的艰辛和责任的孤独无助
当时的我又知道什么，知道什么？