这首诗不是写给你的。你可以短暂地进入它，但没有人会在这里找到你，没有人。你会在这首诗之前改变。即使你坐在那里，一动不动，你已经开始消失了。这并不重要。没有你，这首诗还会继续。它具有某些空洞的虚假魅力。不是伤心，真的，只是空虚。曾经也许是悲伤的，没有人知道为什么。它宁愿什么都不记得。 Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago. Your type of beauty has no place here. Night is the sky over this poem. It is too black for stars. And do not look for any illumination. You neither can nor should understand what it means. Listen, it comes with out guitar, Neither in rags nor any purple fashion. And there is nothing in it to comfort you. Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon. You will forge the poem, but not before It has forgotten you. And it does not matter. It has been most beautiful in its erasures. O bleached mirrors! Oceans of the drowned! Nor is one silence equal to another. And it does not matter what you think. This poem is not addressed to you.