午後時光
日子。心情。人和事
（Orpheus, Eurydike und Hermes, Camilla Nägler, watercolor）
奧菲斯•歐律狄刻•赫爾墨斯
那是深不見底的魂靈之礦
就如白銀的礦脈 靜靜地
在龐大的黑暗中延展，血液
從根部湧出，向上 向人的世界攀升
黑暗中 它看上去堅硬如石
沒有其他東西像它一樣 鮮紅
那裏有峭壁 和
迷霧的森林，還有橋梁
橫跨過深穀 那個巨大的灰色的湖泊
懸掛於深不可測的湖底
就像雨天的天空 懸掛於大地風景之上
穿過溫柔無爭的草地
蒼白的小路鋪展 如一條白色的棉布 蜿蜒開去
沿著這條小路他們來了
領頭的 是披著藍色鬥篷的瘦削男人
—- 沉默 焦躁 麵向前方目不斜視
以貪婪的 狼吞虎咽的姿態 他的步伐
大口大口吞噬著腳下的小路 他的雙手垂在身側
緊張又沉重 懸掛於衣服褶皺之上
他已經感受不到那個精致的豎琴
早已生長於他的左臂的 就像是一支玫瑰
嫁接在橄欖樹之上
他的感官仿佛已經一分為二
視覺像狗 在他的前頭奔跑
停下 折回來 又匆匆離開
在小路的下一個轉彎處 不耐煩地 佇立等待 —-
但是聽覺 卻像氣味一樣 在身後滯留
有時候 他感覺到它向後延伸 幾乎就要碰到他們的腳步聲了
那兩個人 跟隨著他 走在漫長的回家的路上
但是然後 又一次 那隻不過是他自己腳步的回聲
或者是他鬥篷裏的風 弄出的響動
他對自己說 他們一定跟在後麵
他大聲地說 聽自己的話音緩緩消逝
他們一定跟在後麵， 隻是他們的腳步輕得
是如此的不祥 如果他能夠回頭
隻需一次 （但是回頭會摧毀一切
在如此接近成功之際）那麽他一定不會
看不到他們 他一定會看到
另外的兩個人 悄無聲息地 跟在他的身後
旅者之神 神界與人間的信使
旅者頭罩下他雙目炯炯
細長的法杖伸向身前
腳踝處 小小的飛翼呼啦啦扇動
他的左臂 若即若離地 牽引著她
一個女人如此地被愛著 豎琴奏出的哀歌
比所有女人的哀歌加起來還要多
一個完整的悲痛世界升起
自然萬物呈現其中：森林 山穀，
道路 村莊，田野 溪流 鳥獸
環繞著這個悲痛的世界 就像環繞著
另外的一個地球 ，有太陽運行 日出日落
和沉寂的綴滿星辰的天空 ， 一個悲痛的
天空 ，有著它自己獨特的 殘缺的星星 —
她是如此地被深深地愛著
但是現在 她行走在優雅的神的身邊
她的步履被拖拽的殮衣所牽絆
漫無目的 溫順 又耐心十足
她深深地沉浸在自我之中 如同一個孕婦
身心全部沉澱在胎兒身上
她沒有看到前頭行走的男人
還有 那條陡峭攀升的生命之路
深深地沉浸在自我之中 死亡
已經把她徹底充盈 就像一個果實
被自己的神秘和甜美充滿
她被死的廣博充斥著 這種感覺很新鮮
她無法理解這到底是怎樣發生的
她來到了一個嶄新的貞潔之地
無法觸及 她的性覺
如一朵年幼的花 在夜色中閉合
她的雙手 對婚姻是如此的不適應
就連神的引導 似有似無的碰觸
也傷到了她 像一個惹人厭煩的親吻
她已經不再是那個藍眼睛的女人
曾經在詩人的歌聲中回蕩的女人
不再是婚床上的那個島嶼 和迷人的香氣
她不再是 哪個男人的財產
她已經是散開了的長發
傾倒而下的雨水
是取之不盡的 分享之源
她已經是根 如根紮下
然後， 突然地
神伸出手攔住了她，告訴她
言語悲傷： 他回頭了
她沒有聽明白 輕聲問道：
誰？
遠遠的
在閃亮的出口後麵的黑暗裏
站著一個人或其他的什麽，
他的特征無法辨認
他站在那裏，看著：
草地之間的那條小路上
信息之神臉帶哀傷 默默轉身
跟上了那個已經沿著小路往回走的 小小身影
她的步履被拖拽的殮衣所牽絆
漫無目的 溫順 又耐心十足
～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～
俄耳甫斯
維基百科，自由的百科全書
俄耳甫斯（希臘文：?ρφε?ς；拉丁轉寫：Orpheús）是希臘神話中的一位音樂家。傳說他是色雷斯人[1]，故鄉是奧德裏西亞王國的比薩爾提亞[2]，參加過阿耳戈英雄遠征，亦以與其妻歐律狄刻的悲情故事而為人所銘記。
根據俄耳甫斯留下的詩篇，古希臘出現過一個以他為名的秘密宗教，即俄耳甫斯教。
神話
阿波羅與繆斯女神中的卡利俄珀所生，音樂天資超凡入化。他的演奏讓木石生悲、猛獸馴服。伊阿宋組織阿耳戈英雄遠征，去濤洶地險的黑海王國尋取金羊毛。俄耳甫斯踴躍參加，在征途中用神樂壓倒了塞壬的豔迷歌聲，挽救了行將觸礁的征船和戰友。塞壬們沮喪不堪，紛紛投海自盡。
音樂也使他痛心：寧芙歐律狄刻傾醉七弦豎琴（裏拉）的恬音美樂，投入英俊少年的懷抱。婚宴中，女仙被毒蛇噬足而亡。癡情的俄耳甫斯衝入地獄，用琴聲打動了冥王黑帝斯，歐律狄刻再獲生機。但冥王告誡少年，離開地獄前萬萬不可回首張望。冥途將盡，俄耳甫斯遏不住胸中愛念，轉身確定妻子是否跟隨在後，卻使歐律狄刻墮回冥界的無底深淵。
悲痛欲絕的少年隱離塵世，山野漂泊中遇到崇奉酒神戴歐尼修斯及醉裏癡狂的一幫色雷斯女人，不幸死在她們手中。砍下的頭顱雖被拋入河流，口裏仍舊呼喚著歐律狄刻的名字。繆斯女神將他安葬後，七弦琴化成了蒼穹間的天琴座。
～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.
That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.
There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.
Down this path they were coming.
In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two:
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.
He said.to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:
The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.
A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:
So greatly was she loved.
But now she walked beside the graceful god,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.
She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.
She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,
and that man’s property no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.
She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?
Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
(Translated by Stephen Mitchell)
Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes
This was the eerie mine of souls.
Like silent silver-ore
they veined its darkness. Between roots
the blood that flows off into humans welled up,
looking dense as porphyry in the dark.
Otherwise, there was no red.
There were cliffs
and unreal forests. Bridges spanning emptiness
and that huge gray blind pool
hanging above its distant floor
like a stormy sky over a landscape.
And between still gentle fields
a pale strip of road unwound.
They came along this road.
In front the slender man in the blue cloak,
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
Without chewing, his footsteps ate the road
in big bites; and both his hands hung
heavy and clenched by the pour of his garment
and forgot all about the light lyre,
become like a part of his left hand,
rose tendrils strung in the limbs of an olive.
His mind like two minds.
While his gaze ran ahead, like a dog,
turned, and always came back from the distance
to wait at the next bend–
his hearing stayed close, like a scent.
At times it seemed to reach all the way back
to the movements of the two others
who ought to be following the whole way up.
And sometimes it seemed there was nothing behind him
but the echo of his own steps, the small wind
made by his cloak. And yet
he told himself: they were coming, once;
said it out loud, heard it die away . . .
They were coming. Only they were two
who moved with terrible stillness. Had he been allowed
to turn around just once (wouldn't that look back
mean the disintegration of this whole work,
still to be accomplished) of course he would have seen them,
two dim figures walking silently behind:
the god of journeys and secret tidings,
shining eyes inside the traveler's hood,
the slender wand held out in front of him,
and wings beating in his ankles;
and his left hand held out to: her.
This woman who was loved so much, that from one lyre
more mourning came than from women in mourning;
that a whole world was made from mourning, where
everything was present once again: forest and valley
and road and village, field, river and animal;
and that around this mourning-world, just as
around the other earth, a sun
and a silent star-filled sky wheeled,
a mourning-sky with displaced constellations–:
this woman who was loved so much . . .
But she walked alone, holding the god's hand,
her footsteps hindered by her long graveclothes,
faltering, gentle, and without impatience.
She was inside herself, like a great hope,
and never thought of the man who walked ahead
or the road that climbed back toward life.
She was inside herself. And her being dead
filled her like tremendous depth.
As a fruit is filled with its sweetness and darkness
she was filled with her big death, still so new
that it hadn't been fathomed.
She found herself in a resurrected
virginity; her sex closed
like a young flower at nightfall.
And her hands were so weaned from marriage
that she suffered from the light
god's endlessly still guiding touch
as from too great an intimacy.
She was no longer the blond woman
who sometimes echoed in the poet's songs,
no longer the fragrance, the island of their wide bed,
and no longer the man's to possess.
She was already loosened like long hair
and surrendered like the rain
and issued like massive provisions.
She was already root.
And when all at once the god stopped
her, and with pain in his voice
spoke the words: he has turned around–,
she couldn't grasp this and quietly said: who?
But far off, in front of the bright door
stood someone whose face
had grown unrecognizable. He just stood and watched,
how on this strip of road through the field
the god of secret tidings, with a heartbroken expression,
silently turned to follow the form
already starting back along the same road,
footsteps hindered by long graveclothes,
faltering, gentle, and without impatience.
（ German; trans. Franz Wright）
謝謝韭菜，周末愉快！
周末愉快！
我剛開始翻譯也拘謹於原文字的格式，現在放開了。覺得神和意才是一首詩的精髓，當然也有格律之美，但是每種語言的格律之美格式相同，生搬硬套會把格律美給毀掉。我現在的原則是在意上決不妥協，在格律上找到自己語言的美感就好了。
人家菲兒才是大熱門
天空 ，
有著它獨特的殘缺，
星星，
卻總是在那裏依依不舍地閃爍。
別說對不起，
因為過去已經過去
，，，
鬆鬆複活節快樂。