Japan
By Billy Collins
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
日本
由利 · 柯林斯
今天我通过时间阅读
最喜欢的俳句，
反复说几句话。
感觉就像吃
同一小、 完美葡萄
又一次。
我走过背诵它的房子
和离开其下降的字母
通过每个房间的空气。
我站的大钢琴的沉默，说它。
我说这幅画的海前。
我点击出空架子上它的节奏。
我听自己说： 它，
然后我说它不听，
然后我听到它没说它。
当狗抬头看着我，
跪在地板上
和耳语它到每个他长长的白色的耳朵。
它是一个关于一吨寺钟
同睡在其表面的蛾
每次我说它，我感到多么细致
飞蛾的压力
在表面的铁铃。
当我说它在窗口中，
铃声是世界
而且我有休息的蛾。
当我说它在镜像，
我的沉重的钟声
和飞蛾是与纸质翅膀的生命。
后来，当我说它给你在黑暗中，
您是钟，
我的铃声，舌响你，
和飞蛾飞了
从其行
和像铰链上面我们的床上，空气中的移动。