午后时光
日子。心情。人和事
（图片来自网络）（Selfportrait at 6th wedding anniversary， Paula Modersohn-Becker， 1906）
一个朋友的安魂曲
（纪念保拉•莫德索尔•贝克尔）
里尔克诗译：一个朋友的安魂曲 - Requiem for a Friend （上）
（下）
不要被吓到 如果我现在开始明了
它正在我的内心升起 我试图去抓住它 必须要抓住它
哪怕为此献出生命
我一定得抓住它 趁你还在这里的时候 就像一个盲人
死死把一个物件抓在手里
我感知到你的命运 尽管我无法言明
让我们一起哀悼 有人将你从你的镜像深度
拉了出来 你还能够哭泣吗
不：我看出你不能。你把泪水中的力量和压迫
转化为成熟的凝视 你把你的体内的每一滴 液体
转化成一种更加强大的生命力
它升腾 流动 在无知无觉之中 达到平衡
然后 最后一次 机会介入 把你撕扯 把你从你生命轨迹上 最后的
向前的一步 重新拖回那个充满着意志的肉体世界
这不是一下子发生的：撕裂 起初只是一点点
但是围绕着这一点点 现实开始扩展 膨胀 变得沉重 —
你需要自己的全部； 你转过身来 把自己打碎
分裂成一个个的碎片 你不得不这样做
殚心竭虑地 因为你的需求太过强烈
然后 你从心底夜色般温暖的土壤里挖出了种子 仍旧翠绿的种子
从那里面 你的死亡将会发芽： 你自己的 完美的死亡 你整个生命的
圆满的结局
然后 你吞咽下那些绿色的种子 你自己的死亡的种子
就像咽下其他的种子一样 咽下它们 你惊谔地发现了一丝甜美的回味
你的嘴唇上 回味着未曾预期的甜美余味 尽管那个你
在你自己的感官意识里 已经如此甜美
让我们一起哀悼 你知道吗 你知道当你把它唤回 从它
无与伦比的轮回中唤回的那一刻
你的血液 是多么的犹疑 多么地不情愿吗
重新回归肉体狭隘的循环之路 让它如此迷惘
它满怀疑惑与惊愕 一路走来涌向胎盘 然后 在那里
于长途跋涉之后 突然地丧失了所有的气力—- 精疲力尽
你驱赶着它 推动着它向前 把它拖向炉台 就像把受惊的的牲畜拖向祭坛一样
然后 你希望 在经历过这所有的一切之后 它会快乐
最终 你蛊惑了它： 它很高兴 奔跑起来 缴械投降了
而你认为， 因为 已经习惯了生于斯长于斯的各种量衡，
那些将是短暂的 只会持续很短的一段时间
但是现在你身处时间之中 而时间是漫长的 时间
在继续 在变长 时间就像
久病之后的 再次复发
你的一生是多么的短暂啊 与你默默度过的那些空虚时光相比
你将你自己无穷尽的未来中的无穷尽的力量 弯曲
使其偏离轨道 注入年轻的种子—-
那再次成为命运的东西。 这是一项痛苦的任务
一项超越一切力量的任务 但是你日复一日地完成着它
你拖着自己站到它的面前 你把美丽的织物从机子上取下
并将其线缕编织成不同的图案
然后 你依然有着足够的勇气 来庆祝
事成之后 你希望得到回报 就像是孩子们咽下 也许会让他们康复的
苦涩的茶饮之时 期待的那样
所以你选择了自己的回报 即使在那时 你仍然与人们相距甚远
没有人想象得出你想要的到底是什么
但你自己知道 你坐在自己童年的床上 面前立着一面镜子
镜子将一切反射回来 完完整整地 你自己和你的四周
这所有的一切就是你 在你的面前；里面仅仅是虚相。 就像是
女人微笑着对着镜子梳理自己的头发 把珠宝镶嵌于发丝之际
那个甜蜜的欺骗
就这样 你死了，就像过去的女人一样 死在自己家里
在你温暖的卧室里 以那样老旧的方式
就像是在分娩中死去的产妇 她们试图把自己再次闭合
却已经无法做到 因为那古老的黑暗回来了 随着她们的生产而降生
它大刺刺地闯了进来 进入她们的身体
曾几何时，人们会找来礼仪哀悼者--
那些妇女的职业就是哭泣 她们靠着彻夜痛哭而赚钱 当万籁俱寂之际
这就是你必须要来的原因：来索取被我们忽略的哀悼
你听到我的悲鸣了吗
我想要把我的声音甩出去 像一块布一样 覆盖于
你的死亡碎片之上 并不断地扯动 直到
它被撕扯成碎片 那个时候 我所述说的一切
都在走来走去瑟瑟发抖 在那声音的破碎之中
但是仅有哀悼是不够的 我必须控诉：
哦 不是那个将你从你自己身上带走的男人
（我找不到他； 他看起来像每一个人）
而是在这个男人身上，我控诉： 所有的男人
当某个地方 我心灵的深处 有强烈的情绪升起 感知到自己曾经是个孩子 和
那个我曾经经历过的 童年的纯洁和本质：我竟不忍心再去探究
我想要用那种感觉塑造一个天使 把它投掷向前 到那些
天使的最前面 天使们呐喊着 怀念上帝
因为这种痛苦持续得太久
我们谁也无法忍受 它太过沉重 —
这种爱的假象带来的 纠结的痛苦
像习惯一样建立于传统之上
自称正义 却在不公正之中扩张
让我看看谁会对他的所有具有所有权
谁又能真正拥有自己无法掌控的东西？
只能够偶尔地 抓住自己某个幸福的瞬间
然后 把自己抛向空中 就像
孩子抛开一个球一样
就像是船长无法控制雕在船头的尼凯女神
当她的神性的轻灵突然将她托起，带入明亮的海风中里：
我们中的任何一个也几乎无法将她唤回 那个再也看不到我们的女人
而是像奇迹一样，沿着她生存的狭窄道路，平安前行--除非，他希望去做错事
因为这是错的，如果真有什么是错的话：
不应该用一个人 所能召唤的所有的内在自由 来扩张爱的权利
我们需要， 于爱之中，练习这一点：
彼此放手 因为抓住很容易 是与生俱来的能力 无需学习
你还在吗 站在某个角落里？
你对这一切了如指掌 你能够做到那么许多
你的生命如此坦然 就像是一个清晨
我知道 女人饱受苦痛 因为爱情意味着孤独
艺术家在工作中被直觉驱使 他们必须在热爱之中不停地转化
你两者都占：两者都存在于任何名声都会夺走并扭曲你的东西之中
哦，你远远超越了所有的名声 你几乎是隐形的
你收回了你的美丽， 轻轻地
就像人们在假日后灰暗的早晨 降下一面鲜艳的旗帜
你只有过一个愿望：经年累月的工作--尽管你竭尽全力，却仍未完成
如果你还和我在一起 如果在这黑暗中的某个地方 你的灵魂
还在我的声音激起的浅浅声波上共鸣：
听我说 帮帮我。我们可以如此轻易地 从我们努力争取的东西中 抽回 突然地
进入我们从未想要的生活 我们会发现
自己纠缠其中 如同陷入一个梦里 在那里死去 永远不会醒来
这是有可能发生的 任何将热血倾注于长年工作的人 都可能发现
自己无法支撑下去 重力无可抗拒 它会回落 毫无价值地
因为在我们的日常生活和伟大的工作之间 存在着一种古老的敌意
请帮我 在说出它的同时 理解它
不要回来。 如果你能够忍受 就和死者一起死去
死者有死者的任务
但如果可以 请帮助我 不要分心
因为最遥远的东西有时侯会有益助：在我内心里
Requiem for a Friend
Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell
(In memoriam Paula Modersohn-Becker)
（2）
Don’t be frightened if I understand it now;
it’s rising in me, ah, I’m trying to grasp it,
must grasp it, even if I die of it. Must grasp
that you are here. As a blind man grasps an object,
I feel your fate, although I cannot name it.
Let us lament together that someone pulled you
out of your mirror’s depths. Can you still cry?
No: I see you can’t. You turned your tears’
strength and pressure into your ripe gaze,
and were transforming every fluid inside you
into a stronger life-force, that would rise
and circulate, in equilibrium, blindly.
Then, for the last time, chance came in and tore you
back, from the last step forward on your path,
into a world where bodies have their will.
Not all at once: tore just a shred at first;
but when, around this shred, day after day,
reality expanded, swelled, grew heavy—
you needed your whole self; you went away
and broke yourself into fragments, as you had to,
painstakingly, because your need was great.
Then from the night-warm soilbed of your heart
you dug the seeds, still green, from which your death
would sprout: your own, your perfect death, the one
which was your whole life’s perfect consummation.
And swallowed down the green seeds of your death,
like all the others, swallowed them, and were
startled to find an aftertaste of sweetness
you hadn’t planned on, a sweetness on your lips, you
who within your senses were so sweet already.
Let us mourn together. Do you know how hesitantly.
how reluctantly your blood, when you called it back,
returned from its incomparable circuit?
How confused it was to take up once again
the body’s narrow circulation; how,
full of mistrust and astonishment, it came
flowing into the placenta and suddenly
was exhausted by the long journey home.
You drove it on, you pushed it forward, you dragged it
up to the hearth, as one would drag a terrified
animal to the sacrificial altar;
and wanted it, after all that, to be happy.
Finally, you compelled it: it was happy,
it ran up and surrendered. And you thought,
because you’d grown accustomed to other measures,
that this would be for just a little while.
But now you were in time, and time is long.
And time goes on, and time grows large, and time
is like a relapse after a long illness
How short your life was, when it is compared
to those empty hours you passed in silence, bending
the abundant strengths of your abundant future
out of their course, into the new child-seed
that once again was fate. A painful task:
a task beyond all strength. But you performed it
day after day, you dragged yourself in front of it;
you pulled the lovely fabric out of the loom
and wove its threads into a different pattern.
And still had courage enough for celebration.
When it was done, you wished to be rewarded,
like children when they have swallowed down the draught
of bitter tea that perhaps will make them well.
So you chose your own reward, being still so far
removed from people, even then, that no one
could have imagined what reward would please you.
But you yourself knew. You sat up in your child bed
and before you stood a mirror, which gave back
everything, whole. And this everything was you,
and in front of you; inside was mere deception.
the sweet deception of every woman who smiles
as she puts her jewelry on and combs her hair.
And so you died as women used to die,
at home, in your own warm bedroom, the old-fashioned
death of women in labor, who try to close
themselves again but can’t, because that ancient
darkness which they have also given birth to
returns for them, thrusts its way in, and enters.
Once, ritual mourners would have been procured—
women whose job was weeping, who were paid
to howl the whole night through, when all is silent.
That’s why you had to come: to claim the mourning
which we omitted. Can you hear me mourn?
I would like to fling my voice out like a cloth
over the fragments of your death, and keep
pulling at it until it is torn to pieces,
and everything I say would walk around
shivering, in the tatters of that voice.
But mourning is not enough. I must accuse:
oh not the man who withdrew you from yourself
(I cannot find him; he looks like everyone),
but in this one man, I accuse: all men.
When somewhere, from deep within me, there arises
the vivid sense of having been a child,
the purity and essence of that childhood
where I once lived: then I can’t bear to know it.
I want to form an angel from that sense
and hurl him upwards, into the front row
of angels who cry out, rememhering God.
For this suffering has lasted far too long;
none of us can bear it; it is too heavy—
this tangled suffering of spurious love
which, building on convention like a habit,
calls itself just, and fattens on injustice.
Show me a man with the right to his possession.
Who can possess what cannot hold its own self,
but only, now and then, will catch itself
for a blissful moment, and throw itself away
into the air, as a child throws a ball.
As little as a captain can hold the carved
Nike facing outward from his ship’s prow
when the lightness of her godhead suddenly
lifts her up into the bright sea-wind:
so little can one of us call back the woman
who will no longer see us, but, as if
by miracle, sets forth along the narrow
path of her existence, in perfect safety—
unless, that is, he wishes to do wrong.
For this is wrong, if anything is wrong:
not to enlarge the freedom of a love
with all the inner freedom one can summon.
We need, in love, to practice only this:
letting each other go. For holding on
comes easily; we do not need to learn it.
Are you still here? Are you standing in some corner?
You knew so much of all this, you were able
to do so much; you passed through life so open
to all things, like an early morning. I know:
women suffer; for love means being alone;
and artists in their work sometimes intuit
that they must keep transforming, where they love.
You began both; both exist in that
which any fame takes from you and distorts.
Oh you were far beyond all fame; were almost
invisible; had withdrawn your beauty, softly,
as one would lower a brightly-colored flag
on the gray morning after a holiday.
You had just one desire: a years-long work—
which was not finished, in spite of all your efforts.
If you are still here with me, if in this darkness
there is still some place where your spirit resonates
on the shallow sound-waves stirred up by my voice:
hear me; help me. We can so easily
slip back from what we have struggled to attain,
abruptly, into a life we never wanted;
can find ourselves entangled, as in a dream,
and die there, without ever waking up.
This can occur. Anyone who has lifted
his blood into a years-long work may find
he can’t sustain it, the force of gravity
is irresistible, and it falls back, worthless.
For somewhere there is an ancient enmity
between our daily life and the great work.
Help me, in saying it, to understand it.
Do not return. If you can bear to, stay
dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks.
But help me, if you can without distraction,
as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.
我还有九首长诗《杜伊诺哀歌》等待翻译，我会完成任务吗，我只能安慰自己，没有时间限制。