He agonised about returning. In a sense, displacement was not unusual for him; it was the natural condition of a poet, the outsider, critically observing the world and distanced from its norms.
他为返乡而烦恼。从某种意义上说，四处漂泊对他来说并不罕见；这是诗人常见的状态，他们作为一个局外人，批判地观察这个世界，远离既定的规章制度。
He could still work, travelling and lecturing as a mouthpiece for his unseen, unregarded people. Displacement just added another, arbitrary, layer. And whatever else he had lost, he had kept his Palestinian voice: “The fish/even in the fisherman’s net/ Still carries/The smell of the sea.”
他仍然可以工作、旅行和演讲，作为那些看不见的、被忽视的人们的喉舌。漂泊只是添加了一层随意而已。不管他失去了什么，他一直保持着他那巴勒斯坦人的声音:“鱼，即使身陷渔网，仍然吐纳着大海的气息。”
What would it mean, anyway, if he returned? Could he go back to who he was, where he was? Both he and the place would be irrevocably changed. He and his wife Radwa, an Egyptian novelist who also put his poems expertly into English, were separated by his exile for 17 years; when they reunited, the two households took a long time to readjust. Besides, as a poet, place was not essential.
如果他回到故乡，这又意味着什么呢？他还能回到原来的样子，回到他原来的地方吗？他自己和故乡都将发生不可挽回的变化。他的妻子拉德瓦(Radwa)是一位埃及小说家，她也将丈夫的诗歌熟练地译成了英语。巴尔古提漂泊在外，导致两人分离了17年。等再次相聚时，两个家庭都花了很长的时间来适应，此外，作为一个诗人，地方并非关键因素。
He could work in time instead, trying to dwell in the present and the future rather than the past. For it was patches of time—a day of gathering figs from the courtyard tree, an afternoon drinking milkshakes in Rukab’s garden café, the morning ritual of overhearing his grandmother’s whispered prayers—that he really wanted to retrieve, rather than place.
他可以在时光里工作，活在当下和未来，而不是过去。因为他真正要找回的是一段段的时光——某一天从庭院的树上摘无花果，下午在鲁卡布的花园里喝奶昔咖啡，或是在早晨听到祖母低声祈祷的仪式。
