《悲伤与理智》七
俄耳甫斯。欧律狄刻。赫尔墨斯
那是一座奇异幽深的灵魂矿井。
它们像默默无声的银矿矿脉，
蜿蜒穿越矿床的黑暗。根茎间，
流向人类的鲜血在涌动，
宛如黑暗中沉重的斑岩石块。
此外再无任何红色。
但那里有岩石，
有幽深的树林。桥梁跨越虚空，
还有巨大的灰色晦暗的池塘
悬挂在它幽深的池底上方，
如同多雨的灰色天空挂在风景之上。
在柔软的充满耐心的草地间，
现出唯一道路的苍白条带，
如同一条长长的漂白床单。
他们沿着这唯一的道路走来。
走在前面的细长男人身着蓝色长袍，
在沉默的焦躁中直视前方。
他的脚步大口大口吞噬道路，
并不停下来咀嚼；他的双拳悬垂，
使劲握着，探出下垂的衣袖，
不再留意轻盈的竖琴，
这竖琴已在他的左臂生根，
像一株玫瑰攀附橄榄树枝。
他的感觉似乎一分为二：
他的视觉像条狗跑在前面，
转身，回来，站住，反反复复，
远远地等着，在下一个路口，
他的听觉却像气味拖在身后。
有时他恍惚觉得它一路向后
延伸，直到另外那二人的脚步前，
他们应该正跟着他一路向上。
随后再一次，他身后一无所有，
只有他脚步的回音和斗篷的风声。
但他告诉自己他们还跟在身后，
他说出声来，又听见这声音逐渐隐去。
他们还跟在身后，只是这两人，
他们的脚步轻得吓人。如果他敢
回头一看(如果回头一看
不会毁灭这有待完成的壮举，
该有多好！)，他定能看见他们，
两人脚步轻盈，默默跟在他身后：
那浪游和遥远的讯息之神祇，
行者的风帽罩着他闪亮的眼睛，
细长的手杖伸向身体前方，
他脚踝处的一对翅膀在轻盈舞动，
他左臂挽着的是托付给他的她。
她是他钟爱的人，自一把竖琴
诞生的哀恸超过了所有哭丧的女人，
整个世界自这哀恸升起，在这里，
万物再次出现：森林和山谷，
道路和村庄，田野、小溪和野兽；
环绕这哀伤的世界转动，
像环绕另一个地球，太阳
和整片布满星星的寂静天空，
哀伤的天空布满扭曲的星星。
她是他如此钟爱的人。
但此刻她挽着那神祇的手在走，
长长的殓衣限制了她的脚步，
她茫然却温顺，充满耐心。
被自我包裹，像是时辰已近，
她并未想到走在他们前方的男人，
也未想到通向生命的坡道。
被自我包裹，她走着。她的死亡
充盈着她。就像完满。
就像果实被甜蜜和黑暗充满，
她充满伟大的死亡，死亡崭新，
此时她无法接受旁物。
她获得了新的贞洁，
她无法触摸；她的性别之门关闭，
就像傍晚降临时的稚嫩花朵，
她苍白的双手已不习惯
妻子的角色，甚至那高挑神祇
无休止的轻轻触摸也令她
心烦意乱，像是过分的亲昵。
如今她已不再是那位金发女子，
她曾在诗人的诗中赢得回声，
不再是宽大躺椅上的香味和岛屿，
也不再是那个男人的所有。
她松散开来像披肩的长发，
她悠远宽广像如注的雨，
她已被消耗像各种储备。
她已是树根。
可是突然，
那神祇拦住她，痛苦地
喊出一句：“他回头啦！”
她懵懵懂懂，轻声问：“谁？”
但在远处明亮出口的暗影，
不知是谁站在那里，他的面容
无法分辨。他站在那里看着，
在草地间的小道上，
那信使之神，眼中含着忧伤，
默默转身，跟随那个身影，
那身影已回头踏上来时的路，
长长的殓衣限制了她的脚步，
她茫然却温顺，充满耐心。
ORPHEUS. EURYDICE. HERMES
That was the strange unfathomed mine of souls.
And they, like silent veins of silver ore,
were winding through its darkness. Between roots
welled up the blood that flows on to mankind,
like blocks of heavy porphyry in the darkness.
Else there was nothing red.But there were rocks
and ghostly forests. Bridges over voidness
and that immense, gray, unreflecting pool
that hang above its so far distant bed
like a gray rainy sky above the landscape.
And between meadows, soft and full of patience,
appeared the pale strip of the single pathway,
like a long line of linen laid to bleach.
And on this single pathway they approached.
In front the slender man in the blue mantle,
gazing in dumb impatience straight before him.
His steps devoured the way in mighty chunks
they did not pause to chew; his hands were hanging,
heavy and clenched, out of the falling folds,
no longer conscious of the lightsome lyre,
the lyre which had grown into his left
like twines of rose into a branch of olive.
It seemed as though his senses were pided:
for, while his sight ran like a dog before him,
turned round, came back, and stood, time and again,
distant and waiting, at the path's next turn,
his hearing lagged behind him like a smell.
It seemed to him at times as though it stretched
back to the progress of those other two
who should be following up this whole ascent.
Then once more there was nothing else behind him
but his climb's echo and his mantle's wind.
He, though, assured himself they still were coming;
said it aloud and heard it die away.
They still were coming, only they were two
that trod with fearful lightness. If he durst
but once look back (if only looking back
were not undoing of this whole enterprise
still to be done), he could not fail to see them,
the two lightfooters, following him in silence:
The god of faring and of distant message,
the travelinghood over his shining eyes,
the slender wand held out before this body,
the wings around his ankles lightly beating,
and in his left hand, as entrusted, her.
She, so belov'd, that from a single lyre
more mourning rose than from all womenmourners —
that a whole world of mourning rose, wherein
all things were once more present：wood and vale
and road and hamlet, field and stream and beast —
and that around this world of mourning turned,
even as around the other earth, a sun
and a whole silent heaven full of stars,
a heaven of mourning with disfigured stars —
she, so beloved.
But hand in hand now with that god she walked,
her paces circumscribed by lengthy shroudings,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
Wrapt in herself, like one whose time is near,
she thought not of the man who went before them,
nor of the road ascending into life.
Wrapt in herself she wandered. And her deadness
was filling her like fullness.
Full as a fruit with sweetness and with darkness
was she with her great death, which was so new
that for the time she could take nothing in.
She had attained a new virginity
and was intangible; her sex had closed
like a young flower at the approach of evening,
and her pale hands had grown so disaccustomed
to being a wife that even the slim god's
endlessly gentle contact as he led her
disturbed her like a too great intimacy.
Even now she was no longer that blond woman
who'd sometimes echoed in the poet's poems,
no longer the broad couch's scent and island,
nor yonder man's possession any longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
and given far and wide like fallen rain,
and dealt out like a manifold supply.
She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god had halted her and, with an anguished
outcry, outspoke the word：He has turned round！ —
she took in nothing, and said softly：Who？
But in the distance, dark in the bright exit,
someone or other stood, whose countenance
was indistinguishable. Stood and saw
how, on a strip of pathway between meadows,
with sorrow in his look, the god of message
turned silently to go behind the figure
already going back by that same pathway,
its paces circumscribed by lengthy shroudings,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.