Before Two Portraits of My Mother

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 Venetian glass
of her gaze. But this other likeness¹ shows
the deep trenches² 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 portraits, 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
smiles, but at the smiling girl my tears start. 

我深爱这名美丽少女的
画像，她是我的母亲，绘制于多年前
当时她的前额白皙无瑕
如同威尼斯玻璃般闪亮，没有一丝阴影
在她双眸中。但另一幅肖像显出
深深的纹痕布满她皎白大理石般平滑的前额
她少女时的那
首玫瑰情诗
曾在她婚礼中被咏唱，如今已经远去。
此时我心悲伤：比较这两幅肖像，一幅显得 
神情愉悦，另一幅显得心事
重重：一幅如同朝阳初升——另一幅则如迎面而来的阴郁
黑夜。然而我的反应却显得非比寻常，
因为当我看着她失去光泽的双唇，我心
发出微笑，但看着那名微笑的少女，我的泪竟开始涌出。