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?
那些冬天的周日
我的父親在周日也起得早
在半藍半黑的寒冷裏穿上衣服，
然後用還忍受著周日勞作
帶來疼痛的裂開的雙手
把爐灰堆下的火苗燃成火焰。 從沒人感謝他。
當房間變暖了， 他會喊，
我就醒來聽到寒冷裂碎的聲音，
再慢慢的起來穿衣，
害怕房子裏散不去的憤懣，
漠然地對他說，
誰趕走了寒冷
還擦亮了我的好鞋子。
我哪裏懂得， 我哪裏懂得
愛的艱難和孤獨的職責。
