雪飘到我们身上，夹杂着雨水……它绕着淡紫色的灯打转，落在有金色窗户的墙上。我们都是在痛苦的火光中，从肉体中诞生的，我们不记得我们从何而来的红根，但我们知道，我们曾经站起来，走过，过一会儿，我们将再次躺下。雪花飘落在我们身上，我们转身，我们转身，穿过充满光的峡谷，我们的声音和流动…有人倒下受伤了，我们围在他的周围，把他抬走，注视着他憔悴的躯体;他是死是活，我们不知道。我们中间有一个人在街上唱歌，我们听他唱;这句话像模糊的哀鸣，在我们耳边响起。他唱到他很久以前住过的一所房子。这很奇怪; this house of dust was the house I lived in; The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, And throwing him pennies, we bear away A mournful echo of other times and places, And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; In broken slow cascades. The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, Vaguely and incoherently, some dream Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.