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,

 

我给你我已死去的祖辈，

 

the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble:

 

后人们用大理石祭奠的先魂：

 

my father's father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires,

 

我父亲的父亲，阵亡于布宜诺斯艾利斯的边境，

 

two bullets through his lungs,bearded and dead,

 

两颗子弹射穿了他的胸膛，死的时候蓄着胡子，

 

wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow;

 

尸体被士兵们用牛皮裹起；

 

my mother's grandfather-just twenty-four，

 

我母亲的祖父——那年才二十四岁——

 

heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú,

 

在秘鲁率领三百人冲锋，

 

now ghosts on vanished horses.

 

如今都成了消失的马背上的亡魂。

 

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold.

 

我给你我的书中所能蕴含的一切悟力，

 

whatever manliness or humour my life.

 

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;

 

我给你我的寂寞、我的黑暗、我心的饥渴；

 

I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty,with danger,with defeat.

 

我试图用困惑、危险、失败来打动你。