ÎÄѧ×÷Æ·Ó¢Ò룺ÇëÐÀÉÍÏÄÓî×÷Æ·¡¶¼òµ¥Î´À´Ê½¡·
¼òµ¥Î´À´Ê½
ÏÄÓî
Ò»°ÙËêµÄʱºò
ÎÒ¶×ÔÚ°µµµÄÎݽÇ
д˥Èõ¸ÐÉ˵ÄÐÅ£º
¡¸ÓÖÇî
ÓÖ²»Í£µØ·¢ÅÖ
ÓÀ²»ÏûʧµÄ
´¿´âµÄì¶Ü°¡¡£¡¹
Ò»°ÙËêµÄʱºò
ÎÒÈÃÊÀ½çÅÀµ½ÎÒÏ¥¸ÇÉÏÍ·
×öÒ»¸öÍêÃÀµÄµ¹Á¢
ËäÈ»ÎÒÃDz¢²»ÒòΪÕâÑù
¶øÓÐÁ˸üºÃµÄÁ˽â
ÎÒÈÔÈ»¼ÇµÃÎÒµÄÔáÀñ
ÄÇÊÇÒ»°ÙÁãÒ»ËêµÄʱºò
ÊÀÈËÕý´¦ÓÚÐÂÎÄÃ÷µÄÆðµã
ÏԵñ£ÊØ¡¢¶àÒÉ
ÎÒÌý¼ûÓÐÈË˵£º
¡¸Ëû¿´ÆðÀ´±È½Ï³ÏʵÁË¡£¡¹
ÃÎÊÇÁ½µãÖ®¼ä×î¶ÌµÄ¾àÀë
ÃÎÊÇÕæÕý´ÏÃ÷µÄ
Ò»¸öÀÏÈ¥µÄ³¬ÏÖʵÖ÷ÒåÕß
ÎÒ΢ЦÈë˯
µ«¸ù¾ÝËûÃǵÄ˵·¨£¬ÄǾÍÊÇËÀ
ÎÒµÄÊÙÒÂÌ«´ó¹×é¤Ì«Ð¡
·ÖÅ䏸ÎÒµÄÍÁµØÉÏÓÐÌ«¶àµÄÂìÒÏ……
ÄÇЩÄÐÈ˶¼À´ÁË
ÎÒ°®¹ýµÄ
ÓеĴòÉ¡
ÓеÄÁ÷Àá
The Simple Future Tense
When I’m a hundred years old,
I will squat in a corner in the dingy room
and write a weak, sentimental letter:
“I’m so destitute
and I keep gaining weight—
an eternal
pure contradiction!”
When I’m a hundred years old,
I will let the world climb into my lap
to do a perfect handstand,
even though we won’t achieve better understanding
because of this.
I will still remember my funeral,
which will take place when I’m a hundred and one.
The world will be at the beginning of a new civilization
and tend to be conservative, untrusting.
I will hear someone say:
“She looks more honest now.”
Dream is the shortest distance between two points,
dream is the truly smart one.
An aging surrealist,
I will fall asleep smiling.
But according to them, that is death.
My burial clothes will be too big, my casket too small,
the plot they give me will have too many ants…
All those men will come
whom I once loved,
some holding umbrellas,
others shedding tears.
£¨Michelle Yeh Ò룩