somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail¹ gesture are things which enclose me,

or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal² by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending³;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture⁴

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering⁵ death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

（I do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses）

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands.

我从未旅行过的地方，欣然超越

任何的经验，你的眼神多静寂：

你最纤弱的手势犹如将我围绕，

我无法触及，只因太靠近。

你至轻的一瞥，轻易地将我松开，

纵使我紧闭自己如手指，

你恒一瓣一瓣松开我，如春天开启

第一朵玫瑰(巧妙而神秘地，碰触)。

或者若你要关闭我，我和

我生命会美丽地合上，骤然，

一如这朵花的心，想象

雪，小心翼翼从四方飘落；

这世上我感受到的，无物能及你

极精致纤弱的力量，其质地

以其国度的本色驱动我

在每一呼息间，体验死亡与永恒。

(我不知道这关闭我，又开启我的，

你，究竟是什么，只有我内里了解

你眼神的声音，比玫瑰更深邃)

没有人，即使是雨，有这样的小手。

（游元弘 译）