She died in the cruelest November,
wept thirty days, thirty icy midnights.
Dead for the wounded past,
the happening suffering,
the heart broken hopeless.
She died in the cruelest November—
do not ask where she is.
She died, in a white denim blouse,
facing the biting, piercing wind.
Then she was reborn in snowy December,
clothed in black.
Do not ask where she is.
Far away, in a village under mountains,
where dogs bark and cats run,
a lonely house by a large pond—
there she is, breathing freely.
重生
她死于最残酷的十一月，
哭了三十天，三十个冰冷的夜。
为受伤的过往而死，
为发生着的悲苦，
为那颗破碎无望的心。
她死于最残酷的十一月——
别问她去了哪里。
她死了，穿着一件白色牛仔衫，
迎着刺骨冷风。
而后她在飘雪的十二月重生，
身披黑衣。
别再追问她的踪迹。
远方，山脚下的村庄，
狗在吠，猫在跑，
孤屋傍着阔大的池塘——
她就在那儿，自在呼吸。
