没有特别喜欢的中文版本，集大家之所长，略做翻译。 想有时间沉浸在博尔赫斯的图书馆里。
Two English Poems
To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich
I
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-corner
拂晓时分,我伫立在阒无一人的街角
I have outlived the night.
我活过了一夜。
Nights are proud waves;
darkblue topheavy waves
laden with all the hues of deep spoil,
laden with things unlikely and desirable.
黑夜是骄傲的波浪;
暗蓝色的波浪高高落下，
满载着深土的各种色彩，
满载着靠不住而值得渴望的事物。
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
of things half given away, half withheld,
of joys with a dark hemisphere.
黑夜重复着神秘的许诺和拒绝，
将事物一半放弃，一半扣留，
那是黑暗半球的快乐。
Nights act that way, I tell you.
黑夜如此行事，我告诉你。
The surge, that night,
left me the customary shreds and odd ends:
some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams,
and the smoking of bitter ashes.
The things my hungry heart has no use for.
那夜的升浪带给了我惯常的零星琐碎:
几个可憎的交谈朋友、适合做梦的音乐以及苦味灰烬的烟雾。
一些我饥渴的心不需要的事情。
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter;
and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful.
We talked and you have forgotten the words.
一个大浪带来了你。
言语，任何言语，你的笑声；
还有如此没完没了懒散美丽的你。
我们交谈着，而你忘记了那些言语。
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
破晓，我出现在我的城市的一条空巷里。
你背转的侧影，构成你名字的声音，你跌宕有致的笑声，
是你留给我的显赫玩具。
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them;
I tell them to the few stray dogs and
to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life ...
I must get at you, somehow;
我在黎明中打翻他们，丢失它们，找到它们
我向寥寥无几的迷路之犬，也向寥落迷失的晨星诉说。
你黑色而富饶的生命……
不知为什么，我必须想办法了解你；
I put away those illustrious toys you have left me,
I want your hidden look, your real smile
-- that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
我收起那些你留下的显赫玩具，
我渴望你隐蔽的眼色，你真正的笑容
——你清冷的镜子见过的，那种孤独，嘲弄的微笑。
II
What can I hold you with?
我用什么才能留住你？
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs.
我给你瘦落的街道、绝望的落日、荒郊的月亮。
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
that living men have honoured in bronze:
我给你我已死去的祖辈，
后人们用大理石祭奠的先魂：
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;
我父亲的父亲，
阵亡于布宜诺斯艾利斯的边境，
两颗子弹射穿了他的胸膛，
死的时候蓄着胡子，
尸体被士兵们用牛皮裹起；
my mother's grandfather
--just twentyfour
-- heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru,
now ghosts on vanished horses.
我母亲的祖父
——那年才二十四岁
——在秘鲁率领三百人冲锋，
如今都成了消失的马背上的亡魂。
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,
whatever manliness or humour my life.
我给你我的书中所能蕴含的一切悟力，
以及我生活中所能有的男子气概和幽默。
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
我给你一个从未有过信仰的人的忠诚。
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.
我给你我设法保全的我自己的核心
——不营字造句，不和梦交易，
不被时间、欢乐和逆境触动的核心。
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset,
years before you were born.
我给你早在你出生前多年的一个傍晚看到的一朵黄玫瑰的记忆。
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
我给你关于你生命的诠释，
关于你自己的理论，
你的真实而惊人的存在。
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.
我给你我的寂寞、我的黑暗、我心的饥渴；
我试图用困惑、危险、失败来打动你。
- Jorge Luis Borges (1934)
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