Those Winter Sundays
BY ROBERT HAYDEN
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
那些冬天的周日
我的父亲在周日也起得早
在半蓝半黑的寒冷里穿上衣服，
然后用还忍受着周日劳作
带来疼痛的裂开的双手
把炉灰堆下的火苗燃成火焰。 从没人感谢他。
当房间变暖了， 他会喊，
我就醒来听到寒冷裂碎的声音，
再慢慢的起来穿衣，
害怕房子里散不去的愤懑，
漠然地对他说，
谁赶走了寒冷
还擦亮了我的好鞋子。
我哪里懂得， 我哪里懂得
爱的艰难和孤独的职责。
