在这邪恶的一年里，秋天来得早……夜里，我独自走在田野里，雨声哗啦，风打在我的帽子上……你呢?你呢，我的朋友?你站着——也许——看着镰刀形的月亮在森林和露营的火堆上划出一个小弧线，在黑色的山谷里烧得通红。你躺着——也许——躺在稻草地里睡觉，冰冷的露珠落在你的额头和战衣上。可能今晚你就在马背上，在最远的前哨，凝视着前方，手里握着枪，微笑着，轻声细语，对着你疲惫的马。也许——我一直在想象——你在一座有公园的陌生城堡里作客过夜，在烛光下写信，敲打着窗边的钢琴键，摸索着寻找声音……也许你已经沉默了，已经死了，白昼将不再照进你心爱的严肃的眼睛，你心爱的棕色的手枯萎了，你的白皙的额头裂开了——啊，要是，要是，就一次，在最后的一天，我曾向你展示，告诉你我的爱，那是胆怯得说不出来的!但你了解我，你知道…你微笑着，今晚在你那奇异的城堡前点头，你在湿透的森林里对你的马点头，你对你那粗糙的草堆睡觉点头，想着我，微笑。 And maybe, Maybe some day you will come back from the war, and take a walk with me some evening, And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch, And smile gravely, and everything will be as before, And no one will speak a word of his worry, Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field, Of his love. And with a single joke You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights, The summer lightning of shy human friendship, Into the cool past that will never come back. Translated by James Wright Submitted by Holt