While you paint me, I marvel at your skin.
　　The miracle of being twenty-four
　　Is there like a first blush as you touch in
　　The blemishes that make my face a war
　　I’m losing against time. So you begin,
　　By lending inwardness to an outline,
　　Your life in art as I am ending mine.
　　
　　Try not to miss the story my mouth tells,
　　Even unmoving, of how once it had
　　The knack for spinning yarns and casting spells,
　　And had to make an effort to seem sad.
　　These eyes that look as crusty as dry wells,
　　Despite the glue they seep, once keenly shone.
　　Give them at least a glimmer of what’s gone.
　　
　　I know these silent prayers fall on deaf ears:
　　You’ve got integrity like a disease.
　　Bound to record the damage of the years,
　　You aim to tell the truth, and not to please.
　　
　　译者小感：如果，还有人能够保留叙述者一份被倾听的尊严，就算韶华已老，就算沧桑满怀，又何妨？
　　
　　你描绘我时，我在赞叹你的肌肤
　　这是个二十四岁的奇迹
　　你的画笔开始勾勒我脸上的斑驳
　　最初的红晕是否还会呈现？
　　我迷失于时间的长河，而你开始
　　在我的外表下注入内涵
　　这是你艺术生命的开始，而我的却已经结束
　　
　　请别错过我讲述的故事
　　它若不感人，却还饱含着
　　纺纱的诀窍和功底
　　况且，它也竭尽了全力去表达悲伤。
　　这双眼睛已干如枯井，
　　尽管还剩下几滴粘液流淌，
　　但从前他们却曾锐利闪亮。
　　至少为过去留下一缕微光。
　　
　　我知道，这些悄然的祈祷已无人再听：
　　你认为，过分的完美像一场疾病。
　　你想刻录下岁月的伤痕，
　　你想叙述那份真实，并非取悦于人。