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I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,
过去我喜欢牧羊人咖啡,
往我那旧搪瓷壶里倒入一杯咖啡粉,
再加三杯水及一炉火,
and when it’s hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.
当咖啡烧热,沸腾冒泡,
加半杯冷水
让咖啡粉沉底。
It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods all those years ago.
许多年前,当我蹲在河堤上那些
魁梧的红杉下品尝它时,
味道那么浓,那么苦,那么好。
Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.
有那么一些时日,它几乎成了我仅有的一切。
有我的狗和我那古怪前卫的卡车里的
几箱书相伴,我很开心。
But when I think of that posture now,
I can’t help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,
但如今,当我想起那个姿势时,
我便忍不住想到
蜷缩在废墟中的巴勒斯坦人,
the Afghan shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the monk who can’t go home.
赶着咩咩叫着的羊群的阿富汗牧羊人,
哭着给儿子们送行的寡妇,
无家可归的僧侣。
There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes.
咖啡的名称远远少于
爱的名称。他们蹲着,边喝
边想,等待一切降临。
