回到家，我穿着法兰绒长衫，像熊一样爬上了床;我一整夜都在航行，沿着地球上不可能到达的地方航行，最后，带着我的黑胡子，我的毛皮和我的狗，我站在了北极。在那孩童般的夜晚，我的同伴们冻僵了，僵硬的皮毛敲打着我饥饿的喉咙，我长叹一声:雪花簇簇而来，这真的是我的结局吗?在黑暗中，我转身休息。在这里，旗帜在未破冰的耀眼和寂静中折断。我站在这里，狗叫，我的胡子是黑色的，我盯着北极…现在呢?啊，回去吧。随我的意思转身，我的脚步要向南走。世界——我的世界——在这寒冷和悲惨的终点站上旋转;我终于发现，所有的绳索，所有的风，都终结在这漩涡里。 And it is meaningless. In the child's bed After the night's voyage, in that warm world Where people work and suffer for the end That crowns the pain—in that Cloud-Cuckoo-Land I reached my North and it had meaning. Here at the actual pole of my existence, Where all that I have done is meaningless, Where I die or live by accident alone— Where, living or dying, I am still alone; Here where North, the night, the berg of death Crowd me out of the ignorant darkness, I see at last that all the knowledge I wrung from the darkness—that the darkness flung me— Is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing, The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness And we call it wisdom. It is pain. Anonymous submission.