I love the beautiful young girl of this
portrait, my mother, painted years ago
when her forehead was white, and there was no
shadow in the dazzling 1)Venetian glass
of her gaze. But this other likeness shows
the deep trenches across her forehead’s white
marble. The rose poem of her youth that
her marriage sang is far behind. Here is
my sadness: I compare these portrait one
of a joy-radiant brow, the other care-
heavy: sunrise—and the thick coming on
of night. And yet how strange my ways appear,
for when I look at these faded lips my heart
smile but at the smiling girl my tears start.
我深爱着多年前的这幅肖像里
那年轻貌美的姑娘，她是我的母亲
那时，她前额皎白，她那闪耀着七彩光芒的眼睛
没有一丝黯然。但她的另一幅肖像则显出
那一道道深深的纹路爬过她白皙
如大理石的前额。她年少时那首玫瑰诗篇
曾被她的婚姻所吟唱，而今已远去。我的悲伤
就在于：我对比两幅肖像，一幅
神情愉悦，另一幅忧心
忡忡：一幅宛如旭日初升——另一幅则如夜里重重黑暗
来袭。然而我的看法多么奇怪，
当我看着那失去光泽的双唇时，我的心
在微笑，但面对那含笑如花的少女时，我却潸然泪下。
