午後時光
日子。心情。人和事
杜伊諾哀歌
第一哀歌
如果我呼喊 那層層疊疊的天使等級階梯中有誰會聽得到呢
即使他們當中真的有一個 突然把我緊緊地按壓在自己的心口：
我也會在那壓倒性的存在中被消耗
因為美麗永遠是恐怖的起始點 而我們也隻能去忍受
我們是如此地敬畏 因為它波瀾不驚的平靜 不屑於把我們湮滅
每一個天使都讓人心生畏懼
所以 我隻能忍住 暗自吞咽下黑暗啜泣的召喚
啊 在需要之時 我們還能轉向誰去求助呢
不是天使 不是人類 應該知道的動物們也都已經知道了
這裏並不是我們真正的家 這個被我們詮釋過的世界
也許遺留給我們的是山坡上的那些樹 它們會每天進入我們的視野
還有昨天的街道 以及習慣裏麵的忠誠 如此的自在
它跟我們同在 入駐之後 不再離開
哦 還有夜晚：那些個夜晚 風攜帶著無盡的空間啃噬著我們的臉
它不會為誰留下 — 那個讓人渴望的 溫和的 幻滅性的存在
對戀人來說 是不是沒有那麽艱難？
他們彼此扶持彼此利用著 以此來隱藏自己的命運
你還不明白嗎
把空虛從你的懷抱中拋出吧，拋向我們呼和吸的空間
那樣也許 鳥兒就會感受得到更加廣博的空氣 帶著更多的激情去飛翔
是的—- 春天需要你 常常有一顆星星在等待著你的關注
一個波浪衝出遙遠的過去 向你滾滾而來
或者 當你從一扇打開的窗下走過 那把小提琴向你的聽覺臣服
所有這些都是使命 你又真正地成就了什麽
難道你不是總是被期待所幹擾 仿佛每一個事件都宣布了自己的愛人？
（你在哪裏可以找到一個空間去存放她呢？ 你內心的那些巨大的奇怪的念頭來來去去，並常常整夜停留）
但是當你感受到渴望之時，就會唱出戀愛中的女人； 因為她們著名的激情仍然不朽
歌唱被遺棄和寂寞的女人（你幾乎就要羨慕她們了）
她們可以比那些心滿意足的人愛得更加純粹
一次又一次 開始那永無止境的讚美，記住：英雄永存
甚至他的墮落 也隻是實現其最終誕生的一個借口
但是大自然，耗盡精力，把戀人拉回到她自己的身邊
仿佛沒有足夠的力量來創造他們第二次
你對加斯帕拉-斯坦帕*的想象是否足夠強烈？
以至於任何被心愛的人拋棄的女孩都會被這種猛烈飆升的例子所鼓舞
被那種無人之愛所激勵 並可能對自己說："也許我可以像她一樣"？
這種最古老的苦難 難道不應該最終為我們帶來更多的成果和充實？
難道現在我們不應該滿懷慈悲 把自己從所愛的人身上解放，
顫抖著，承受著：就像箭承受著弓弦的張力
以便在釋放的瞬間，可以超越自己？
因為我們 已經無地停留
聲音 聲音 去聽 我的心，隻有聖人去聽過；
直到那巨大的呼喚將他們從地上抬起；
他們繼續著 仿佛不可能地 跪伏著卻根本沒有注意到： 他們的傾聽是如此的完整
不是說你可以承受上帝的聲音--遠非如此
隻是去傾聽風的聲音和沉默中形成的 無窮無盡的信息
那是早逝的人向你發出的喃喃自語
難道他們的命運 每當你踏入那不勒斯或羅馬的教堂時
沒有悄悄地來向你致辭？
或者在那高處，一些悼詞委托你完成一項使命
就像去年的時候在聖瑪麗亞-福莫薩的牌匾上？
他們隻是想要我 輕柔地移除有關他們死亡的不公正的表象 --
因為 那樣有時候會輕微地阻礙他們靈魂的繼續前行
當然 不再在地球上居住是一種陌生的感覺
放棄幾乎沒有時間學習的習俗
不再從人類未來的角度去看待玫瑰和其他帶有希冀的事和物
不再是一個被握在無限焦慮的手中的人的樣子
甚至把自己的名字也拋在腦後
就像孩子丟棄壞掉的玩具
這是陌生的 不再渴望自己的欲求
這是陌生的 看到曾經的意義彼此相連 又向各個方向飄散
死亡是艱辛的 充滿著重組和翻新 直到人們最終感受到一絲永恒的痕跡
盡管活著的人錯誤地相信 他們自己創造了鮮明和卓越
天使 （他們說）不能確認自己到底是在活人還是死人中穿行
永恒的洪流將所有的年齡卷入其中，永久地穿越著這兩個境地
他們的聲音在它雷鳴般的咆哮之中 被淹沒
最終 那些早早離開的人不再需要我們：
他們已經從地球的悲歡離合中脫離
漸行漸遠 就像斷奶的孩子離開母親柔軟的胸膛
但是我們，需要那些偉大的奧秘
悲傷常常是我們精神成長的源泉
沒有它們我們能夠存在嗎？
難道那個無意義的傳說沒有告訴我們嗎 如何在林納斯的悲歌中
大膽的音符首次刺穿荒蕪的麻木 然後
在那個青春如神的美麗少年突然永遠離開的震驚空間裏
虛空第一次感受到了和諧 那種今天讓我們陶醉 欣慰和受益的 和諧
* Gaspara Stampa（1523-1554）： 意大利文藝複興時期偉大的女詩人。被戀人遺棄後寫有大量詩作，記錄她的愛情故事和後來的孤寂與失落。
Duino Elegies
by Rainer Maria Rilke
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?
and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.
Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision;
there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease
when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left.
Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.
Whom would it not remain for--that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence,
which the solitary heart so painfully meets.
Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet?
Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe;
perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.
Yes--the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing.
All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?
Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved?
(Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
going and coming and often staying all night.)
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)
who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on;
even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back into herself,
as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time.
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough
so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring,
objectless love and might say to herself, "Perhaps I can be like her?"
Shouldn't this most ancient of sufferings finally grow more fruitful for us?
Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and,
quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension,
so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself.
For there is no place where we can remain.
Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened:
until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground;
yet they kept on, impossibly, kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening.
Not that you could endure God's voice--far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.
Didn't their fate, whenever you stepped into a church in Naples or Rome,
quietly come to address you?
Or high up, some eulogy entrusted you with a mission,
as, last year, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa.
What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death--
which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward.
Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
to give up customs one barely had time to learn,
not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future;
no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
to leave even one's own first name behind,
forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy.
Strange to no longer desire one's desires.
Strange to see meanings that clung together once, floating away in every direction.
And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.
Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which
they themselves have created.
Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among, or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it, through both realms forever,
and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar.
In the end, those who were carried off early no longer need us:
they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys,
as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers.
But we, who do need such great mysteries,
we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth--:
could we exist without them?
Is the legend meaningless that tells how, in the lament for Linus,
the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness;
and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god has suddenly left forever,
the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.
（Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1992，Translated by Stephen Mitchell）
謝謝覺曉惦記Allen， 你的後院竟然有畫眉？ 太幸運了。
看見我家後院飛來的畫眉，總想和你說一聲，想到你的公子觀察鳥。我也翻出地下室一本鳥類書。
這一組十首都很長， 譯者費力氣， 讀者也費力氣。
圖大，詩詞也長，小c翻譯得真好！悄悄話