Somewhere I Have Never Travelled
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
有个地方我从未去过
有个地方我从未去过,在经验之外
愉快地存在,你的眼睛有种沉默:
你最纤巧的姿态里有东西能紧裹我
也有东西太靠近我使我无法触摸
哪怕我把自己关紧象捏拢手指
你最轻微的目光也很容易打开我,
一瓣儿一瓣儿开,就象春天打开
(巧妙、神秘地触摸着)第一朵玫瑰
或者你的愿望是把我关起,我和
我的生命会闭上,优美地,突然地,
似乎这朵花的心里正在想象
漫天白雪处处飘下,小心翼翼;
这世界上我们理解的东西没一件
能与你紧绷的纤巧相比:那种质地
用它本乡的颜色逼迫着我而且
给我死亡,永远地,随着每次呼吸
(我不知道你有什么本领能开
又能关;我心中却有东西却能够
理解你眼睛的声音深于任何玫瑰)
没人,哪怕雨也没有如此小巧的手