天空诉说优雅美妙，
一种声音从未复述，
相同形状绝不重描。
每片雪花尽是荣耀。
洁白点点撒落
见证风的呼啸。
在飘动的风雪中
我欣然举目，
冰的感觉
天之爱抚。
上苍的甘露令人
痴迷走上旅途，
从平常话到赞美
这圣洁的白色之物。
何等壮丽啊 去追踪
讲话的源头，
去用各种语言歌唱，
摇摆既无苦痛
又神圣，天赐之福。
没有人猜到
雪传递什么：
慈悲旋转
吼叫着“是”
在故事的故事里面。

Glossolalia

The sky says grace,
never the same sound twice,
never the same shape.
Each flake is glory.
Every white sift
bears witness to the voice
behind the wind. I raise
my eyes to rejoice
in drift and flurry,
the feel of ice
and weather's caress.
So manna leads to trance,
then the journey
from idiom to praise
of the white abyss.
How splendid to trace
speech to its source,
to sing in tongues
and sway unbitter
and blessed, in bliss,
as snow delivers
what no one guessed:
the swirl of mercy,
the snarling "yes"
inside the story's story.

By R. T. Smith (美)