APOLOGIA

光与归来的歌

Songs of Light and Return

三十首双语诗 / Thirty Bilingual Songs

John van Sicklen Maeck II

APOLOGIA: 光与归来的歌 / Songs of Light and Return

Copyright © 2026 John van Sicklen Maeck II. All rights reserved.

本选集收入三十首诗，以简体中文译文在前、英文原作在后的方式编排。中文文本以作者已审阅的现有译稿为基础整理。

This selected edition contains thirty poems, presented with the Simplified Chinese translation first and the English original second. The Chinese texts are based on the existing translations reviewed with the author.

翻译与编辑过程中使用了人工智能辅助。 / AI-assisted translation and editing were used in preparing the Chinese texts.

序

Preface

这些歌不试图从高处解释灵性。它们从具体事物出发：一条路、一盏灯、一座花园、一条河、一把空椅子、一扇门、一张桌子、一双手，以及清晨的光。它们所寻找的不是远离日常生活的神圣，而是日常生活本身如何显露神圣。这三十首歌从觉醒出发，经过行路、失去、等待、爱与劳作，最后回到光、感恩与归来。

These songs do not try to explain the spiritual from above. They begin with particulars: a road, a lamp, a garden, a river, an empty chair, a door, a table, a pair of hands, and morning light. They seek not a sacred realm removed from ordinary life, but the ways ordinary life itself can reveal the sacred. The thirty songs move from awakening through passage, loss, patience, love, and work, before returning to light, gratitude, and homecoming.

目录 / Contents

第一部：光 / PART I — LIGHT

1. 窄路 / The Narrow Road

2. 灯 / The Lamp

3. 园丁 / The Gardener

4. 第一只鸟 / The First Bird

5. 黎明 / The Dawn

6. 永恒的清晨 / The Eternal Morning

第二部：水与行路 / PART II — WATER AND PASSAGE

7. 河流 / The River

8. 橡树 / The Oak

9. 提灯 / The Lantern

10. 桥 / The Bridge

11. 静静的小溪 / The Quiet Brook

12. 归家 / Homecoming

第三部：失去与等待 / PART III — LOSS AND PATIENCE

13. 冬天 / Winter

14. 空椅子 / The Empty Chair

15. 静默的收获 / The Quiet Harvest

16. 等待 / Waiting

17. 宽恕 / Forgiveness

18. 伟大的重逢 / The Great Reunion

第四部：爱与劳作 / PART IV — LOVE AND WORK

19. 灯塔 / The Lighthouse

20. 港湾 / The Harbor

21. 木匠 / The Carpenter

22. 陶匠 / The Potter

23. 葡萄园 / The Vineyard

24. 婚宴 / The Wedding Feast

第五部：归来 / PART V — RETURN

25. 朝圣者的休息 / The Pilgrim's Rest

26. 最后的地平线 / The Final Horizon

27. 指甲缝里的神性 / Divinity Under My Nails

28. 归来 / The Return

29. 借来的光 / The Borrowed Light

30. 感恩 / Gratitude

第一部：光

PART I — LIGHT

1. 窄路

仍要走那条窄路。

不是因为它狭窄，

而是因为它要求你

留意双脚落在何处。

宽路承载喧嚣。

窄路承载聆听。

这里的石头都有名字。

这里的野草向清晨倾身。

有时你会独自前行。

不要把孤独误认作被遗弃。

道路正在教你：

你所需的何其少，

你所得的何其多。

继续走。

道路不承诺轻松。

只承诺方向。

只承诺黎明。

1. The Narrow Road

Walk the narrow road anyway.

Not because it is narrow,

but because it asks you

to notice where you place your feet.

The broad road carries noise.

The narrow road carries listening.

Here the stones have names.

Here the weeds lean toward morning.

You will sometimes walk alone.

Do not mistake solitude for abandonment.

The path is teaching you

how little you need

and how much you have been given.

Keep walking.

The road does not promise ease.

Only direction.

Only dawn.

2. 灯

我祈求白昼。

却只得到一盏灯。

起初我抱怨。

黑暗太大，

火焰太小。

后来我迈出一步。

灯跟着我。

我又迈出一步。

光仍然够用。

也许这就是信仰——

不是要求太阳立刻升起，

而是携带足够的光，

照亮下一步。

也许道路

只会向那些

愿意走上去的人

显现。

2. The Lamp

I asked for daylight.

I was given a lamp.

At first I complained.

The darkness was too large,

and the flame too small.

Then I took one step.

The lamp came with me.

I took another.

Still it was enough.

Perhaps that is faith—

not demanding the sunrise,

but carrying enough light

for the next step.

And perhaps the road

becomes visible

only to those

who are willing to walk it.

3. 园丁

园丁不会拉扯

刚冒出的嫩芽，

然后称之为鼓励。

他松土。

他浇水。

他等待。

他知道成长

不能靠命令。

只能被陪伴。

有些枝条必须修剪。

有些杂草必须认清。

但大部分工作，

只是专注。

这些年，我一直

试图修补世界。

花园教我另一种方式：

准备土壤，

保护柔嫩之物，

相信生命

会自己伸向光明。

3. The Gardener

The gardener does not pull

at the green shoot

and call it encouragement.

He loosens the soil.

He brings water.

He waits.

He knows growth

is not commanded.

It is accompanied.

Some branches must be pruned.

Some weeds must be named.

But most of the work

is attention.

I have spent years

trying to repair the world.

The garden teaches another way:

prepare the ground,

protect what is tender,

and trust life

to reach toward light.

4. 第一只鸟

城市醒来之前，

一只鸟先唱了。

没有合唱回应。

没有枝头鼓掌。

它仍然歌唱。

也许它知道

我已经忘记的事：

清晨从不等待

众人同意。

一声清亮的鸣唱

进入灰色空气，

整个天空

仿佛不再那么孤单。

我听着。

然后另一只鸟回应。

希望就是这样传递——

不是作为证明，

而是一道

愿意先开始的声音。

4. The First Bird

Before the city woke,

one bird began.

No chorus answered.

No branch applauded.

Still it sang.

Perhaps it knew

what I had forgotten:

morning does not wait

for agreement.

One clear note

entered the gray air,

and the whole sky

seemed less alone.

I listened.

Then another bird answered.

This is how hope travels—

not as proof,

but as a voice

willing to begin.

5. 黎明

黎明不与

黑夜争辩。

它缓缓进入，

把一只苍白的手

铺在屋顶之上。

黑暗松开。

不是被击败。

而是完成了。

我经历过一些夜晚，

以为它们永远不会结束。

然而清晨还是来了，

并没有先问

我配不配得到。

于是我站在窗前，

让光

做光本来会做的事：

照见房间，

照见我的双手，

照见又一次开始。

5. The Dawn

Dawn does not argue

with the night.

It enters slowly,

laying one pale hand

across the roofs.

The darkness loosens.

Not defeated.

Completed.

I have known nights

I thought would never end.

Yet morning came

without asking

whether I deserved it.

So I stand at the window

and let the light

do what light does:

reveal the room,

reveal my hands,

reveal another beginning.

6. 永恒的清晨

我曾把永恒想象成
无尽的时间。

如今我把它想象成
一个
不匆忙的清晨。

桌上的光。
心爱的人
已经醒来。

没有未完的争吵。
没有时钟
催我们离开。

只有一种奇异的领悟：
自己被完全知晓，
却仍然被欢迎。

若天堂有一扇门，
也许它会
像黎明一样打开。

6. The Eternal Morning

I used to imagine eternity
as endless time.

Now I imagine
a morning
without hurry.

Light on a table.
Someone beloved
already awake.

No unfinished argument.
No clock
asking us to leave.

Only the strange recognition
of being completely known
and still welcomed.

If heaven has a doorway,
perhaps it opens
like dawn.

第二部：水与行路

PART II — WATER AND PASSAGE

7. 河流

河流从不留住

它所触碰的东西。

叶子、石头、雨水，

都进入其中，

又被带向前方。

我曾希望生命

静止得足够久，

让我把它看懂。

河流笑了。

你留不住水，

它说。

但你可以跪在岸边。

你可以饮水。

你可以祝福流逝之物。

于是我张开双手。

水流穿掌而过。

什么也没留下，

可我依然

重新得了清新。

7. The River

The river never keeps

what it touches.

Leaf, stone, rain,

all enter

and are carried on.

I wanted life

to hold still long enough

for me to understand it.

The river laughed.

You cannot keep the water,

it said.

But you can kneel beside it.

You can drink.

You can bless what passes.

So I opened my hands.

The current moved through them.

Nothing remained,

and still

I was refreshed.

8. 橡树

橡树之所以强壮，

不是因为躲开了风雨。

风进入了它的历史。

干旱进入了。

冬天也进入了。

一圈又一圈年轮，

那些曾威胁它的东西

成了它力量的一部分。

我把手

贴在树皮上，

没有在那里感觉到苦涩。

只有耐心。

只有天地之间

漫长的顺服。

愿我也这样生长——

并非毫发无伤，

而是扎根得足够深，

能把风雨

变成木质。

8. The Oak

The oak did not become strong

by escaping weather.

Wind entered its history.

Drought entered.

Winter entered.

Ring by ring,

what threatened it

became part of its strength.

I placed my hand

against the bark

and felt no bitterness there.

Only patience.

Only a long obedience

between earth and sky.

May I grow like that—

not untouched,

but rooted enough

to turn weather

into wood.

9. 提灯

提灯之所以有用，

正因为黑暗存在。

它不诅咒黑夜。

它只是燃烧。

我遇见过一些人，

他们走进一个房间，

便让说出真话

变得容易。

并不宏大。

把椅子拉近。

温柔地问一句。

不催促一段沉默。

他们提着灯，

自己却不知道。

愿我学会

那样的光——

亮得足以引路，

静得不会

刺伤眼睛。

9. The Lantern

A lantern is useful

because darkness exists.

It does not curse the night.

It simply burns.

I have met people

who entered a room

and made it easier

to tell the truth.

Nothing grand.

A chair pulled closer.

A question asked gently.

A silence not hurried.

They carried lanterns

without knowing it.

May I learn

that kind of light—

bright enough to guide,

quiet enough

not to blind.

10. 桥

一座桥既不属于

这一岸，

也不属于那一岸。

它的生命

就在两者之间。

这些年我一直

渴望确定，

渴望某一边

彻底正确。

可爱仍在水面之上

继续搭建。

一块木板接一块木板。

一个词接一个词。

一次道歉接一次道歉。

桥不是共识。

它只是通向彼岸的方法。

有时这就足够了——

对两个曾以为

这条河会永远

将他们分开的人而言。

10. The Bridge

A bridge belongs

neither to one shore

nor the other.

Its life is in between.

I have spent years

wanting certainty,

wanting one side

to be completely right.

But love keeps building

across the water.

Board by board.

Word by word.

Apology by apology.

A bridge is not agreement.

It is a way across.

Sometimes that is enough

for two people

who thought the river

would divide them forever.

11. 静静的小溪

小溪并不匆忙，

却仍然抵达。

它绕过石头，

穿过枝下，

流过树根。

路变窄时，

水变清。

路变宽时，

水变静。

我坐在溪边，

直到我的思绪

失去锋利的边缘。

并非每一段旅程

都需要用力。

有些事物抵达大海，

靠的是顺势而行，

却从未放弃

自己的方向。

11. The Quiet Brook

The brook did not hurry

and still arrived.

It moved around stone,

under branch,

past root.

Where the path narrowed,

it became clear.

Where it widened,

it became still.

I sat beside it

until my thoughts

lost their sharp edges.

Not every journey

needs force.

Some things reach the sea

by yielding

without surrendering

direction.

12. 归家

我曾在房屋里、
城市里、
另一个人的怀抱里
寻找家。

每一种都给过我庇护。
却没有一种
能让我逃离自己。

最后我回来了，
没有地图，
也没有多少行李。

我曾害怕的那扇门
早已敞开。

门里面：
我自己的生命，
并不完美，
却一直在等我。

家不是
什么都没有失去的地方。
家是我终于
不再逃离
仍然留下的一切。

12. Homecoming

I searched for home
in houses,
in cities,
in another person's arms.

Each gave shelter.
None could keep me
from myself.

At last I returned
with no map
and little luggage.

The door I had feared
was already open.

Inside:
my own life,
imperfect,
waiting.

Home was not
where nothing had been lost.
Home was where
I stopped running
from what remained.

第三部：失去与等待

PART III — LOSS AND PATIENCE

13. 冬天

冬天剥去

夏天允许我们隐藏的东西。

叶子落下。

枝桠坦白

自己是怎样长成的。

田野看似空无，

其实并非如此。

根仍在继续，

在无人鼓掌的地方。

我经历过一些季节，

仿佛什么都没有生长。

如今我会想：

地下究竟有什么

正在积蓄力量。

冬天不是死亡。

它是一种操练：

在绿色归来之前，

先相信生命。

13. Winter

Winter removes

what summer lets us hide.

Leaves fall.

Branches confess

how they are made.

The field looks empty

and is not.

Roots continue

where no one applauds.

I have known seasons

when nothing seemed to grow.

Now I wonder

what was gathering strength

underneath.

Winter is not death.

It is the discipline

of believing in life

before green returns.

14. 空椅子

椅子空着。

这是第一个事实。

第二个事实是：

地板一响，

我仍会回头。

爱教会身体

一些习惯，

悲伤也无法抹去。

我不把椅子填满。

也不把它搬走。

有些缺席

值得在桌旁

保留一个位置。

有时，

在晚饭后的寂静里，

我终于明白：

已经离去的

仍可以在场，

却不必成为牢笼。

14. The Empty Chair

The chair is empty.

That is the first truth.

The second

is that I still turn

when the floor creaks.

Love teaches the body

habits grief cannot erase.

I do not fill the chair.

I do not move it away.

Some absences

deserve a place

at the table.

And sometimes,

in the quiet after supper,

I understand:

what is gone

can still be present

without becoming a prison.

15. 静默的收获

并非每一次收获

都会装满谷仓。

有些收获到来时，

只是一个变柔软的回答。

一次放下怨恨。

一通终于拨出的电话。

有些小得

无人看见，

只有那颗长久背负

旧重担的心

知道。

我曾数算

自己能够展示什么。

如今我数算

自己能够放下什么。

平安有时

是一场安静的收获，

在艰难土地上

很晚才被采集。

15. The Quiet Harvest

Not every harvest

fills a barn.

Some arrive

as a softened answer.

A resentment released.

A phone call made.

Some are so small

no one sees them

except the soul

that has been carrying

an old weight.

I once counted

what I could show.

Now I count

what I can lay down.

Peace is sometimes

a quiet harvest

gathered late

from difficult ground.

16. 等待

等待并非空无。

种子等待。

伤口等待。

潮水在港湾之外

等待。

我曾试图

强行推开一些门，

而它们的铰链

需要的其实是时间。

如今我坐下来，

陪着尚未完成之事。

不是消极。

而是在场。

有些工作

只有耐心能完成。

有些答案

只有当问题

学会安静之后

才会到来。

16. Waiting

Waiting is not empty.

The seed waits.

The wound waits.

The tide waits

outside the harbor.

I have tried

forcing doors

whose hinges needed time.

Now I sit

with what is unfinished.

Not passive.

Present.

There is work

only patience can do.

And there are answers

which arrive

only after the question

has learned

to become quiet.

17. 宽恕

宽恕到来时，

并不是一种感觉。

它像一扇门——

我终于不再

从里面把它锁住。

我没有把错说成对。

我也没有抹去伤口。

我只是厌倦了

让痛苦

替我守卫未来。

于是我张开手。

最先离开的

不是记忆。

而是紧握。

在愤怒曾经站立的地方，

呼吸重新回来。

17. Forgiveness

Forgiveness did not come

as a feeling.

It came as a door

I stopped locking

from the inside.

I did not call wrong right.

I did not erase the wound.

I simply grew tired

of asking pain

to guard my future.

So I opened my hand.

What left first

was not memory.

It was the grip.

And in the space

where anger had been standing,

breath returned.

18. 伟大的重逢

没有人抵达时
还带着旧日的计分卡。

名字被说出时
不再带着指控。

孩子、母亲、
朋友、陌生人——
都从我们赋予他们的角色
背后走出来。

剩下的
只是认出彼此。

你在那里。
我在那里。
我们都曾害怕。
我们都在学习。

然后有人笑了，
整个房间
忽然变得更宽。

也许重逢
不是把过去取回来。
也许是终于
看见彼此完整的样子。

18. The Great Reunion

No one arrives
carrying the old scorecards.

Names are spoken
without accusation.

The child, the mother,
the friend, the stranger—
all step out
from behind the roles
we gave them.

What remains
is recognition.

You were there.
I was there.
We were frightened.
We were learning.

Then someone laughs
and the whole room
becomes larger.

Perhaps reunion
is not getting the past back.
Perhaps it is finally
seeing one another whole.

第四部：爱与劳作

PART IV — LOVE AND WORK

19. 灯塔

灯塔

不会追逐船只。

它站在

自己被安放的地方，

守住光。

暴风抹去地平线。

浓雾让海

看起来无边无际。

光束仍然旋转。

我这一生花了太多时间

追赶那些

我想拯救的人。

也许爱有时意味着：

稳稳地站在那里，

让迷失的人

自己找到岸，

而不是被你拖上岸。

19. The Lighthouse

The lighthouse

does not chase ships.

It stands

where it was planted

and keeps the light.

Storms erase the horizon.

Fog makes the sea

look endless.

Still the beam turns.

I have spent too much life

running after those

I wanted to save.

Perhaps love sometimes means

staying steady enough

that someone lost

can find the shore

without being dragged there.

20. 港湾

每一艘船

都需要港湾，

但没有一艘船

天生是为了永远停在那里。

港湾不怨恨

离开。

它接纳归来。

我想这样去爱：

不是锁链，

不是占有，

而是一处地方——

让另一个生命

能够休息，

却不必放弃

大海。

20. The Harbor

Every boat

needs a harbor,

but no boat

was made to remain there.

The harbor does not resent

departure.

It receives return.

I want to love

like that:

not as a chain,

not as a claim,

but as a place

where another life

can rest

without surrendering

the sea.

21. 木匠

木匠量两次，

因为木头会记住错误。

他顺着木纹工作，

而不是逆着它。

一块粗糙的木板

不是冒犯。

它只是材料。

我曾希望别人

变成我想象中的样子。

木匠教我

一种更温柔的手艺：

看见眼前之物。

知道它的强处。

尊重它的限度。

然后只建造

这块木头

诚实能够承受的东西。

21. The Carpenter

The carpenter measures twice

because wood remembers mistakes.

He works with grain,

not against it.

A rough board

is not an insult.

It is material.

I have wanted people

to become what I imagined.

The carpenter teaches

a gentler craft:

see what is here.

Know its strength.

Honor its limits.

Then build

what the wood

can honestly bear.

22. 陶匠

泥土在陶匠手中

塌了下来。

他没有咒骂。

他把泥重新聚拢。

水。

压力。

居中。

陶轮再次转动。

我曾把塌陷

叫作失败。

也许陶匠

会叫它

尚未完成的形状。

双手回来。

陶轮回来。

泥土从毁坏中

重新回来，

没有羞耻。

22. The Potter

The clay collapsed

in the potter's hands.

He did not curse it.

He gathered it again.

Water.

Pressure.

Center.

Again the wheel turned.

I have called collapse

failure.

Perhaps the potter

would call it

an unfinished shape.

The hands return.

The wheel returns.

The clay returns

from ruin

without shame.

23. 葡萄园

葡萄藤之所以结果，

是因为它依附于

比自身更大的东西。

棚架、土地、雨水、阳光——

缺一不可。

连甜美

也有自己的共同体。

我曾赞美

单独的一颗葡萄。

如今我看见根、

工人、天气，

以及漫长的等待。

没有任何活着的东西

能够独自成为自己。

甚至我们庆祝时

举起的那杯酒，

也始于依赖。

23. The Vineyard

The vine gives fruit

by holding to something

larger than itself.

Trellis, earth, rain, sun—

none can be omitted.

Even sweetness

has a community.

I once praised

the single grape.

Now I see the roots,

workers, weather,

and long waiting.

Nothing alive

becomes itself alone.

Even the wine

we raise in celebration

begins with dependence.

24. 婚宴

面包够吃。

最先让我惊讶的
就是这一点。
面包够。
椅子够。
甚至为迟到的人
也有足够的空间。

没有人问
我们完成过什么。

我们入席，
只因为我们来了。

酒从一只手
传到另一只手。
有人唱起歌，
却忘了歌词。
没有人在意。

爱终于成为
它一直想成为的样子：

不是考试，
而是一张桌子。

24. The Wedding Feast

There was enough bread.

That surprised me first.
Enough bread.
Enough chairs.
Enough room
for those who arrived late.

No one asked
what we had accomplished.

We were seated
because we had come.

The wine moved
from hand to hand.
Someone began a song
and forgot the words.
No one minded.

Love had finally become
what it had always wanted:

not a test,
but a table.

第五部：归来

PART V — RETURN

25. 朝圣者的休息

朝圣者坐在
一棵树下，
脱下鞋。

这一次，
他没有问
还剩多远。

道路不需要他的注视
也继续向前。
鸟飞过天空。
草在风中摇动。

他曾相信休息
必须走够了路
才配得到。

如今他明白：
休息本来就是道路的一部分。

他闭上眼睛。
什么也没有崩塌。

世界继续运转。
有那么一会儿，
他允许自己
也被世界托住。

25. The Pilgrim's Rest

The pilgrim sat
beneath a tree
and removed his shoes.

For once
he did not ask
how far remained.

The road continued
without his attention.
Birds crossed the sky.
Grass moved in wind.

He had believed rest
was earned
after enough miles.

Now he understood:
rest was part of the road.

He closed his eyes.
Nothing collapsed.

The world carried on.
For a little while,
he allowed himself
 to be carried with it.

26. 最后的地平线

到了最后的地平线，
我不想要
一份清单。

不要书。
不要分数。
不要赢过的争论。

让我只带着
那些无法称量的东西：

记住的面孔，
尝试过的宽恕，
看见过的美，
以及无人注视时
给出的善意。

太阳会低下去。
道路会消失
在光里。

若我学会了爱，
愿那就是
足够的地平线。

26. The Final Horizon

At the final horizon
I do not want
an inventory.

Not the books.
Not the scores.
Not the arguments won.

Let me carry
only what cannot be weighed:

faces remembered,
forgiveness attempted,
beauty noticed,
kindness given
when no one was watching.

The sun will lower.
The road will disappear
into light.

If I have learned to love,
let that be
enough horizon.

27. 指甲缝里的神性

我曾称自己为失败者，
因为我拥有过一切，
却仍然
迷失了方向。

但如今我升起，
像一颗恒星
挣脱旧名字的引力
那样迅疾。

我徒手攀登。

云层撕开。
天堂被光照得粗粝，
被寂静充满，
又因创造的尘埃而活着。

我把手伸得更高，
回来时已留下印记——

神性留在指甲缝里，
一小片一小片的永恒
被我用双手带回。

我升起，是因为我跌倒过，
因为我匍匐过，
因为我终于懂得
重新站立有多么神圣而沉重。

27. Divinity Under My Nails

I called myself a loser
because I had been given everything
and still managed
to lose my way.

But now I rise
with the speed of a star
breaking loose
from the gravity of its old name.

I climb with bare hands.

The clouds tear open.
Heaven is rough with light,
thick with silence,
alive with the dust of creation.

I reach higher
and come away marked-

divinity stuck under my nails,
small pieces of eternity
carried back in my hands.

I rise because I fell,
because I crawled,
because I learned
the sacred weight of standing again.

28. 归来

奇迹从来不是
我触碰了云。
真正的奇迹
是我回来了。

回到粗糙的草地，
未写完的信，
推失的球，
渐老的面孔，
以及又一次日出在问：

你今天要做什么善事？

最小的善意
打开了天堂。
最安静的时刻
也成了大教堂。

我已经没有什么需要证明。
只求恩典，
让我双脚仍踏在大地时，
内心继续攀登。

28. The Return

The miracle was never
that I touched the clouds.
The miracle
was that I came back.

Back to rough grass,
unfinished letters,
missed putts,
aging faces,
and another sunrise asking,

What good will you do today?

The smallest kindness
opened heaven.
The quietest moment
became a cathedral.

I have nothing left to prove.
Only the grace
to keep climbing within
while my feet remain upon the earth.

29. 借来的光

遗憾曾变成
一个老伙伴，
但不再是我的主人。

只有人类保存这样的账簿。
创造本身从不记账。

星辰从不争夺
夜空。
每一颗都以
被赐予的光发亮。

我们并不拥有光。
我们借来它。
照料它。

然后怀着感恩，
把它传下去——

仍然温暖，
仍然活着，
仍在指甲缝里
带着天堂的尘埃。

29. The Borrowed Light

Regret had become
an old companion,
but no longer my master.

Only man keeps such ledgers.
Creation keeps none.

The stars do not compete
for the night.
Each shines
with the light it was given.

We do not own the light.
We borrow it.
We tend it.

Then, with grateful hands,
we pass it on-

still warm,
still living,
still carrying
beneath our fingernails
the dust of heaven.

30. 感恩

感恩并不是

假装从未受伤。

它是回望

整片田野，

并发现

仍有东西在生长。

一个朋友。

一个教训。

一个熬过来的清晨。

一只没有离开的手。

悲伤也许会

坐在同一张桌旁。

让它坐吧。

感恩不会驱逐悲伤。

它只是在旁边点起一支蜡烛，

然后说：

我们还在这里。

还有面包。

还有爱。

30. Gratitude

Gratitude is not

pretending nothing hurt.

It is looking back

across the whole field

and finding

something still growing.

A friend.

A lesson.

A morning survived.

A hand that remained.

Sorrow may sit

at the same table.

Let it.

Gratitude does not evict grief.

It lights a candle beside it

and says:

We are still here.

There is still bread.

There is still love.