俄耳甫斯。歐律狄刻。赫爾墨斯
那是一座奇異幽深的靈魂礦井。
它們像默默無聲的銀礦礦脈，
蜿蜒穿越礦床的黑暗。根莖間，
流向人類的鮮血在湧動，
宛如黑暗中沉重的斑岩石塊。
此外再無任何紅色。
但那裡有岩石，
有幽深的樹林。橋樑跨越虛空，
還有巨大的灰色晦暗的池塘
懸掛在它幽深的池底上方，
如同多雨的灰色天空掛在風景之上。
在柔軟的充滿耐心的草地間，
現出唯一道路的蒼白條帶，
如同一條長長的漂白床單。
他們沿著這唯一的道路走來。
走在前面的細長男人身著藍色長袍，
在沉默的焦躁中直視前方。
他的腳步大口大口吞噬道路，
並不停下來咀嚼；他的雙拳懸垂，
使勁握著，探出下垂的衣袖，
不再留意輕盈的豎琴，
這豎琴已在他的左臂生根，
像一株玫瑰攀附橄欖樹枝。
他的感覺似乎一分為二：
他的視覺像條狗跑在前面，
轉身，回來，站住，反反覆覆，
遠遠地等著，在下一個路口，
他的聽覺卻像氣味拖在身後。
有時他恍惚覺得它一路向後
延伸，直到另外那二人的腳步前，
他們應該正跟著他一路向上。
隨後再一次，他身後一無所有，
只有他腳步的回音和斗篷的風聲。
但他告訴自己他們還跟在身後，
他說出聲來，又聽見這聲音逐漸隱去。
他們還跟在身後，只是這兩人，
他們的腳步輕得嚇人。如果他敢
回頭一看(如果回頭一看
不會毀滅這有待完成的壯舉，
該有多好！)，他定能看見他們，
兩人腳步輕盈，默默跟在他身後：
那浪游和遙遠的訊息之神祇，
行者的風帽罩著他閃亮的眼睛，
細長的手杖伸向身體前方，
他腳踝處的一對翅膀在輕盈舞動，
他左臂挽著的是托付給他的她。
她是他鍾愛的人，自一把豎琴
誕生的哀慟超過了所有哭喪的女人，
整個世界自這哀慟升起，在這裡，
萬物再次出現：森林和山谷，
道路和村莊，田野、小溪和野獸；
環繞這哀傷的世界轉動，
像環繞另一個地球，太陽
和整片佈滿星星的寂靜天空，
哀傷的天空佈滿扭曲的星星。
她是他如此鍾愛的人。
但此刻她挽著那神祇的手在走，
長長的殮衣限制了她的腳步，
她茫然卻溫順，充滿耐心。
被自我包裹，像是時辰已近，
她並未想到走在他們前方的男人，
也未想到通向生命的坡道。
被自我包裹，她走著。她的死亡
充盈著她。就像完滿。
就像果實被甜蜜和黑暗充滿，
她充滿偉大的死亡，死亡嶄新，
此時她無法接受旁物。
她獲得了新的貞潔，
她無法觸摸；她的性別之門關閉，
就像傍晚降臨時的稚嫩花朵，
她蒼白的雙手已不習慣
妻子的角色，甚至那高挑神祇
無休止的輕輕觸摸也令她
心煩意亂，像是過分的親暱。
如今她已不再是那位金髮女子，
她曾在詩人的詩中贏得回聲，
不再是寬大躺椅上的香味和島嶼，
也不再是那個男人的所有。
她鬆散開來像披肩的長髮，
她悠遠寬廣像如注的雨，
她已被消耗像各種儲備。
她已是樹根。
可是突然，
那神祇攔住她，痛苦地
喊出一句：「他回頭啦！」
她懵懵懂懂，輕聲問：「誰？」
但在遠處明亮出口的暗影，
不知是誰站在那裡，他的面容
無法分辨。他站在那裡看著，
在草地間的小道上，
那信使之神，眼中含著憂傷，
默默轉身，跟隨那個身影，
那身影已回頭踏上來時的路，
長長的殮衣限制了她的腳步，
她茫然卻溫順，充滿耐心。
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.