What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather—just twenty four—heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow —the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Two English Poems
To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich
(II)
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather—just twenty four—heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow —the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
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两首英文诗
献给贝阿特丽斯 比维罗尼 韦伯斯特 德布尔里奇
（之二）
四言版：
何以挽君？
我愿呈贡：陋巷残阳，荒郊新月。
我愿呈贡：士望孤月，沧沧其楚。
我愿呈贡：吾之先祖，家族烈士，世人缅怀，不朽之魂：吾之祖父，战死疆场，弹穿其肺，蓄髯而逝，马革裹尸；吾母之父，逝时三八，帅三百士，魂萦亡马。
我愿呈贡：吾书之慧，士之节气，诙谐风趣。
我愿呈贡：未献之诚。
我愿呈贡：久藏衷心，无言喻之，无梦抵之，岁月无痕，悲喜无染。
我愿呈贡：忆昔黄玫，沐浴夕阳，数年之后，汝方降生。
我愿呈贡：汝之诠释，汝之理论，汝之轶闻。
我可予汝：吾心之孤，吾心之暗，吾心之饥；
我欲说汝，惑以飘忽，诱以奇险，鼓以大捷。
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白话版：
我可以用什么来留住你？
我献给你逼仄的街道，令人沮丧的落日，以及在犬牙交错的郊区升起的月。
我献给你一个久望孤月的男人的酸楚。
我献给你我的先祖们，我家族那些逝去的男子汉们，至今活着的人们仍旧在青铜雕像前缅怀的我的那些先祖们的魂灵：
我那牺牲在布宜诺斯艾利斯前线的祖父，两颗子弹穿过他的肺，他留着胡须死去，被他的战友们用一张牛皮包裹；
我的外祖父 — 年仅二十四岁，在秘鲁统帅一支三百人的队伍，如今他们的魂灵漂浮在无形的马背上。
我献给你我所有的书里可能包含的任何洞见，还有我生命中任何的男子汉气概或者幽默。
我献给你一个男人从未献出过的忠诚。
我献给你我深藏的真心，一定程度上 — 此心无法用语言来表述，无法用梦想来传述，它不曾被时间、欢乐和灾难所沾染。
我献给你在距你出生几年前我看见夕阳下一朵黄玫瑰的记忆。
我献给你我对你的解读，有关你的理论，还有关于你的原汁原味的、惊喜的传闻。
我可以给你我的孤独，我的阴暗，以及我心灵的渴望；
我在试图用不确定、危险和失败来诱惑你。
更多我的博客文章>>> 【四言名诗】何以呈君 [译Jorge Luis Borges （豪尔赫·路易斯·博尔赫斯)《两首英文诗》之二] 试译Jorge Luis Borges （豪尔赫·路易斯·博尔赫斯)《两首英文诗》之二 修行远离四病 (摘自《圆觉经》） 【四言妙曲】君言乐雨 （You say that you love rain） 【信口开河】 之 妄议《陋室铭》
那句“逝时三八”有点奇怪，台湾人说谁三八是骂人的。。可不可以找个词代替。我胡说啊。。
这个还是白话文适合吧。
是我太俗太土，的确试图追求过理解英文诗。是不是我想入门时读错了，读了惠特曼。那是2016年的时候。我还记得翻开书，真的觉得吃了一堆草，就是牛吃的那种饲料