如果这么多的人死去，还有人淘金，或者在遥远的国家卖武器，谁还会尊重这座没有名字的城市呢?什么牧人的角裹在桦树的树皮里，能在波纳利的山上唤起对亡者的回忆?流浪汉，探索者，解散分会的弟兄?这个春天，在沙漠里，在营地的旗杆那边，在绵延到黄红山脉的坚硬岩石的寂静中?我听到灰色的灌木丛中野蜜蜂的嗡嗡声。水流带着回声和木筏的木料。一个戴着无边帽的男人和一个裹着头巾的女人用他们的四只手使劲地推着沉重的舵桨。在图书馆里，在一座绘有十二星座标志的塔下面，康特里姆会从鼻烟壶里吸一口，然后微笑，因为尽管梅特涅还没有失去一切。在一条沙质公路中间的弯弯曲曲的小路上，犹太人的马车行驶着，一只黑松鸡在叫，站在一个铁骑的头盔上，那是一个大胳膊武士的遗属。在死亡谷，我想到了各种发型，想到了在学生舞会上移动聚光灯的那只手，想到了那个没有任何声音能传到我耳朵里的城市。 Minerals did not sound the last trumpet. There was only the rustle of a loosened grain of lava. In Death Valley salt gleams from a dried-up lake bed. Defend, defend yourself, says the tick-tock of the blood. From the futility of solid rock, no wisdom. In Death Valley no hawk or eagle against the sky. The prediction of a Gypsy woman has come true. In a lane under an arcade, then, I was reading a poem Of someone who had lived next door, entitled 'An Hour of Thought.' I looked long at the rearview mirror: there, the one man Within three miles, an Indian, was walking a bicycle uphill. 3 With flutes, with torches And a drum, boom, boom, Look, the one who died in Istanbul, there, in the first row. He walks arm in arm with his young lady, And over them swallows fly. They carry oars or staffs garlanded with leaves And bunches of flowers from the shores of the Green Lakes, As they came closer and closer, down Castle Street. And then suddenly nothing, only a white puff of cloud Over the Humanities Student Club, Division of Creative Writing. 4 Books, we have written a whole library of them. Lands, we have visited a great many of them. Battles, we have lost a number of them. Till we are no more, we and our Maryla. 5 Understanding and pity, We value them highly. What else? Beauty and kisses, Fame and its prizes, Who cares? Doctors and lawyers, Well-turned-out majors, Six feet of earth. Rings, furs, and lashes, Glances at Masses, Rest in peace. Sweet twin breasts, good night. Sleep through to the light, Without spiders. 6 The sun goes down above the Zealous Lithuanian Lodge And kindles fire on landscapes 'made from nature': The Wilia winding among pines; black honey of the Żejmiana; The Mereczanka washes berries near the Żegaryno village. The valets had already brought in Theban candelabra And pulled curtains, one after the other, slowly, While, thinking I entered first, taking off my gloves, I saw that all the eyes were fixed on me. 7 When I got rid of grieving And the glory I was seeking, Which I had no business doing, I was carried by dragons Over countries, bays, and mountains, By fate, or by what happens. Oh yes, I wanted to be me. I toasted mirrors weepily And learned my own stupidity. From nails, mucous membrane, Lungs, liver, bowels, and spleen Whose house is made? Mine. So what else is new? I am not my own friend. Time cuts me in two. Monuments covered with snow, Accept my gift. I wandered; And where, I don't know. 8 Absent, burning, acrid, salty, sharp. Thus the feast of Insubstantiality. Under a gathering of clouds anywhere. In a bay, on a plateau, in a dry arroyo. No density. No harness of stone. Even the Summa thins into straw and smoke. And the angelic choirs fly over in a pomegranate seed Sounding every few instants, not for us, their trumpets. 9 Light, universal, and yet it keeps changing. For I love the light too, perhaps the light only. Yet what is too dazzling and too high is not for me. So when the clouds turn rosy, I think of light that is level In the lands of birch and pine coated with crispy lichen, Late in autumn, under the hoarfrost when the last milk caps Rot under the firs and the hounds' barking echoes, And jackdaws wheel over the tower of a