被小轮子移动的时间不是我的时间，是不会流动的洪水。在双声和单声的报时钟之间，在一轮轮的钟声之间，我从黑漆漆的战舰上走过了许多世，而这一世是乔的一生，他活在五声钟之间。月光倾泻而下，深邃而垂直的光渡船缓缓而下。五声铃冷冰冰地以机器的声音响起。夜与水夜幕降临，港湾漂浮在空中，十字架倒挂在水中。我为什么要想起你，死人，为什么要从时间锚定的思想的侥幸中偷走这些无益的住所?你已经离开地球，连名字的意义都没有了;然而有什么东西在那里，有什么东西形成了它的嘴唇，击打着太空的港口，呼喊着，拍打着它们的两侧，让人们听到它的愤怒。你是在对我喊叫吗，死人，捏着你的脸在无语的玻璃上痛苦地说话?大声哭，敲窗户，喊你的名字! But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells, Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time. Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life, There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait - Nothing except the memory of some bones Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud; And unimportant things you might have done, Or once I thought you did; but you forgot, And all have now forgotten - looks and words And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off, Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales Of Irish kings and English perfidy, And dirtier perfidy of publicans Groaning to God from Darlinghurst. Five bells. Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark, So dark you bore no body, had no face, But a sheer voice that rattled out of air (As now you'd cry if I could break the glass), A voice that spoke beside me in the bush, Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind, Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man, And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found. But all I heard was words that didn't join So Milton became melons, melons girls, And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night, And in each tree an Ear was bending down, Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass, When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought, The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky, Knifing the dark with deathly photographs. There's not so many with so poor a purse Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that, Five miles in darkness on a country track, But when you do, that's what you think. Five bells. In Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched away By the soft archery of summer rains And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage, The sodden ectasies of rectitude. I thought of what you'd written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use, All without meaning now, except a sign That someone had been living who now was dead: "At Labassa. Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this, very dark And cold in winter. Everything has been stowed Into this room - 500 books all shapes And colours, dealt across the floor And over sills and on the laps of chairs; Guns, photoes of many differant things And differant curioes that I obtained..." In Sydney, by the spent aquarium-flare Of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper, We argued about blowing up the world, But you were living backward, so each night You crept a moment closer to the breast, And they were living, all of them, those frames And shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth, And most your father, the old man gone blind, With fingers always round a fiddle's neck, That graveyard mason whose fair monuments And tablets cut with dreams of piety Rest on the bosoms of a thousand men Staked bone by bone, in quiet astonishment At cargoes they had never thought to bear, These funeral-cakes of sweet and sculptured stone. Where have you gone? The tide is over you, The turn of midnight water's over you, As Time is over you, and mystery, And memory, the flood that does not flow. You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution laid - The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows down like shining hair, But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend