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，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