名人诗歌|Passerby, These are Words

by Yves Bonnefoy Translated by Hoyt Rogers

Passerby^{1， these are words. But instead of reading I want you to listen： to this frail2 Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.}

Lend an ear， hear first of all the happy bee Foraging^{3 in our almost rubbed-out names.}

It flits between two sprays of leaves，Carrying the sound of branches that are real To those that filigree^{4 the unseen gold.}

Then know an even fainter sound， and let it be The endless murmuring of all our shades.

Their whisper rises from beneath the stones To fuse into a single heat with that blind Light you are as yet， who can still gaze.

Listen simply， if you will. Silence is a threshold Where， unfelt， a twig^{5 breaks in your hand As you try to disengage A name upon a stone：}

And so our absent names untangle your alarms.

And for you who move away， pensively，Here beccomes there without ceasing to be.