我用什么才能留住你。

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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, the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble: my father's father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather -just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.

我给你我已死去的祖辈，后人们用大理石祭奠的先魂：我父亲的父亲，阵亡于布宜诺斯艾利斯的边境，两颗子弹射穿了他的胸膛，死的时候蓄着胡子，尸体被士兵们用牛皮裹起；我母亲的祖父——那年才二十四岁——在秘鲁率领三百人冲锋，如今都成了消失的马背上的亡魂。

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold. whatever manliness or humour my life.

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