Another Poem for Mothers

给母亲的另一首诗

Erin Belieu

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Mother, I'm trying
to write
a poem to you—

妈妈我在努力
来写
给你的一首诗

which is how most
poems to mothers must
begin—or, What I've wanted
to say, Mother...but we
as children of mothers,
even when mothers ourselves,

这是最
给母亲的诗必须
开始-或者,我想要的
说,妈妈...但是我们
作为母亲的孩子,
即使是母亲自己

cannot bear our poems
to them. Poems to
mothers make us feel

不能忍受我们的诗
给他们。 诗来
母亲让我们感到

little again. How to describe
that world that mothers spin
and consume and trap

再次年轻。 如何描述
母亲旋转的世界
消耗并诱捕

and love us in, that spreads
for years and men and miles?
Those particular hands that could

并爱我们,传播
多年的男人和里程?
那些特别的手可以

smooth anything: butter on bread,
cool sheets or weather. It's
the wonder of them, good or bad,

抹平任何东西:面包上涂黄油,
凉爽的床单或天气。 它的
他们的奇迹,好坏,

those mother-hands that pet
and shape and slap,
that sew you together
the pieces of a better house
or life in which you'll try
to live. Mother,

那些妈妈的手
形状和巴掌
把你缝在一起
更好的房子的碎片
或您将尝试的生活
为了生活。 母亲,

I've done no better
than the others, but for now,
here is your clever failure.

我没有比其他人做得更好,
但现在,
这是你聪明的失败。

♬♕𝒮𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒶♕♬

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偶遇佳句
日积月累,感受中文之简洁写意,英文之自由流畅。
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