父亲节诗译：那些冬季的星期天

那些冬季的星期天

罗伯特-海顿

星期天父亲照样起得很早，
在黑蓝色的严寒中穿起衣服，
然后用那平日风霜劳作满是裂纹疼痛的手，
把封着的炉火打开。从没有人感谢他。

我醒来，听着寒冷在破碎消散。
屋子暖和以后，他叫起我，
我懒洋洋爬起来，穿上衣服，
怕听见那房子惯常的愤怒。

我对他冷淡地说话，
尽管他刚刚驱走了寒冷
还给我那双好一点的鞋子打了蜡。
那时我哪里懂得，哪里懂得，
父爱的质朴和写字楼的孤独？

Those Winter Sundays

By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake 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 indifferently 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?