杜伊诺哀歌
第一哀歌
如果我呼喊 那层层叠叠的天使等级阶梯中有谁会听得到呢
即使他们当中真的有一个 突然把我紧紧地按压在自己的心口：
我也会在那压倒性的存在中被消耗
因为美丽永远是恐怖的起始点 而我们也只能去忍受
我们是如此地敬畏 因为它波澜不惊的平静 不屑于把我们湮灭
每一个天使都让人心生畏惧
所以 我只能忍住 暗自吞咽下黑暗啜泣的召唤
啊 在需要之时 我们还能转向谁去求助呢
不是天使 不是人类 应该知道的动物们也都已经知道了
这里并不是我们真正的家 这个被我们诠释过的世界
也许遗留给我们的是山坡上的那些树 它们会每天进入我们的视野
还有昨天的街道 以及习惯里面的忠诚 如此的自在
它跟我们同在 入驻之后 不再离开
哦 还有夜晚：那些个夜晚 风携带着无尽的空间啃噬着我们的脸
它不会为谁留下 — 那个让人渴望的 温和的 幻灭性的存在
对恋人来说 是不是没有那么艰难？
他们彼此扶持彼此利用着 以此来隐藏自己的命运
你还不明白吗
把空虚从你的怀抱中抛出吧，抛向我们呼和吸的空间
那样也许 鸟儿就会感受得到更加广博的空气 带着更多的激情去飞翔
是的—- 春天需要你 常常有一颗星星在等待着你的关注
一个波浪冲出遥远的过去 向你滚滚而来
或者 当你从一扇打开的窗下走过 那把小提琴向你的听觉臣服
所有这些都是使命 你又真正地成就了什么
难道你不是总是被期待所干扰 仿佛每一个事件都宣布了自己的爱人？
（你在哪里可以找到一个空间去存放她呢？ 你内心的那些巨大的奇怪的念头来来去去，并常常整夜停留）
但是当你感受到渴望之时，就会唱出恋爱中的女人； 因为她们著名的激情仍然不朽
歌唱被遗弃和寂寞的女人（你几乎就要羡慕她们了）
她们可以比那些心满意足的人爱得更加纯粹
一次又一次 开始那永无止境的赞美，记住：英雄永存
甚至他的堕落 也只是实现其最终诞生的一个借口
但是大自然，耗尽精力，把恋人拉回到她自己的身边
仿佛没有足够的力量来创造他们第二次
你对加斯帕拉-斯坦帕*的想象是否足够强烈？
以至于任何被心爱的人抛弃的女孩都会被这种猛烈飙升的例子所鼓舞
被那种无人之爱所激励 并可能对自己说："也许我可以像她一样"？
这种最古老的苦难 难道不应该最终为我们带来更多的成果和充实？
难道现在我们不应该满怀慈悲 把自己从所爱的人身上解放，
颤抖着，承受着：就像箭承受着弓弦的张力
以便在释放的瞬间，可以超越自己？
因为我们 已经无地停留
声音 声音 去听 我的心，只有圣人去听过；
直到那巨大的呼唤将他们从地上抬起；
他们继续着 仿佛不可能地 跪伏着却根本没有注意到： 他们的倾听是如此的完整
不是说你可以承受上帝的声音--远非如此
只是去倾听风的声音和沉默中形成的 无穷无尽的信息
那是早逝的人向你发出的喃喃自语
难道他们的命运 每当你踏入那不勒斯或罗马的教堂时
没有悄悄地来向你致辞？
或者在那高处，一些悼词委托你完成一项使命
就像去年的时候在圣玛丽亚-福莫萨的牌匾上？
他们只是想要我 轻柔地移除有关他们死亡的不公正的表象 --
因为 那样有时候会轻微地阻碍他们灵魂的继续前行
当然 不再在地球上居住是一种陌生的感觉
放弃几乎没有时间学习的习俗
不再从人类未来的角度去看待玫瑰和其他带有希冀的事和物
不再是一个被握在无限焦虑的手中的人的样子
甚至把自己的名字也抛在脑后
就像孩子丢弃坏掉的玩具
这是陌生的 不再渴望自己的欲求
这是陌生的 看到曾经的意义彼此相连 又向各个方向飘散
死亡是艰辛的 充满着重组和翻新 直到人们最终感受到一丝永恒的痕迹
尽管活着的人错误地相信 他们自己创造了鲜明和卓越
天使 （他们说）不能确认自己到底是在活人还是死人中穿行
永恒的洪流将所有的年龄卷入其中，永久地穿越着这两个境地
他们的声音在它雷鸣般的咆哮之中 被淹没
最终 那些早早离开的人不再需要我们：
他们已经从地球的悲欢离合中脱离
渐行渐远 就像断奶的孩子离开母亲柔软的胸膛
但是我们，需要那些伟大的奥秘
悲伤常常是我们精神成长的源泉
没有它们我们能够存在吗？
难道那个无意义的传说没有告诉我们吗 如何在林纳斯的悲歌中
大胆的音符首次刺穿荒芜的麻木 然后
在那个青春如神的美丽少年突然永远离开的震惊空间里
虚空第一次感受到了和谐 那种今天让我们陶醉 欣慰和受益的 和谐
* Gaspara Stampa（1523-1554）： 意大利文艺复兴时期伟大的女诗人。被恋人遗弃后写有大量诗作，记录她的爱情故事和后来的孤寂与失落。
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）
