i offer you the bitterness of a an who has looked long and long at the lonely oon

i offer you y ancestors, y dead n, the ghosts that livg n have honoured arble:

y father’s father killed the frontier ofbuenos aires, o bullets through his ngs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his ldiers the hide of a w;

y other’s grandfather -jt entyfour- headg a char of three hundred n peru, now ghosts on vanished horses

i offer you whatever sight y books ay hold,whatever anless or huour y life

i offer you the loyalty of a an who has never been loyal

i offer you that kernel of yself that i have saved how -the central heart that deals not words, traffics not with dreas and is untouched by ti, by joy, by adversities

i offer you the ory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born

i offer you expnationf yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprisg news of yourself

ican give you y loneless, y darkness, the hunr of y heart;

i a tryg to bribe you with uncertaty, with danr, with defeat

--

(我用什么才能留住你？

我给你贫穷的街、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。

我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。

我给你我已死去的先辈，人们用大理石纪念他们的幽灵：

在布宜偌斯艾利斯边境阵亡的我父亲的父亲，两颗弹穿了他的膛。蓄着胡的他死去了，士兵们用裹起他的尸；

我母亲的祖父——时年二十四岁——在秘鲁率领三百名士兵冲锋，如今都成了消失的背上的幽灵。

我给你我写的书中所能包的一切悟力、我生活中所能有的男气概或幽默。

我给你一个从未有过信仰人的忠诚。

我给你我设法保全的我自己的心——不营字造句，不和梦想易，不被时

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