父親節詩譯：那些冬季的星期天

那些冬季的星期天

羅伯特-海頓

星期天父親照樣起得很早，
在黑藍色的嚴寒中穿起衣服，
然後用那平日風霜勞作滿是裂紋疼痛的手，
把封著的爐火打開。從沒有人感謝他。

我醒來，聽著寒冷在破碎消散。
屋子暖和以後，他叫起我，
我懶洋洋爬起來，穿上衣服，
怕聽見那房子慣常的憤怒。

我對他冷淡地說話，
盡管他剛剛驅走了寒冷
還給我那雙好一點的鞋子打了蠟。
那時我哪裏懂得，哪裏懂得，
父愛的質樸和寫字樓的孤獨？

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?