It's not in misery but in oblivion

It's not in misery but in oblivion,

Not vertically in a mood of joy

Screaming the spring

Over the ancient winter,

He'll lie down, and our breath

Will chill the roundness of his cheeks,

And make his wide mouth home.

For we must whisper down the funnel

The love we had and glory in his blood

Coursing along the channels

Until the spout dried up

That flowed out of the soil

All seasons with the same meticulous power,

But the veins must fail.

He's not awake to the grave

Though we cry down the funnel,

Splitting a thought into such hideous moments

As drown, over and over, this fever.

He's dead, home, has no lover,

But our speaking does not thrive

In the bosom, or the empty channels.

Our evil, when we breathe it,

Of dissolution and the empty fall,

Won't harm the tent around him,

Uneaten and not to be pierced

By us in sin or us in gaiety.

And who shall tell the amorist

Oblivion is so loverless.

不在痛苦中而在遗忘中

不在痛苦中而在遗忘中，

更绝非怀着喜悦的心情

大声呼喊着春天

越过那古老的冬天，

他躺下歇歇，我们的呼吸

必将冷却他那圆鼓鼓的脸颊，

并让他宽阔的嘴回了家。

我们必须低声走下狭窄的小道

我们拥有的爱和他血液中的荣耀

沿着管道流淌

直到从土壤里

涌出的喷口干涸

带着同样精准的力越过所有的季节，

而脉管一定会衰退。

他对墓穴尚未有所警觉

尽管我们轻视狭小的空间

点滴想法分割成如此可怕的瞬间

有如反复溺毙这场热病。

他死了，回家了，没有任何恋人，

而在内心，或空空的通道，

我们也没有更多的话要说。

我们消融的不幸，呼吸到它时，

我们的堕落，空空如也，

不会伤害到他四周的帷幕，

不会被吞吃、被刺入

被我们的罪或欢乐所伤。

而谁会告诉这群好色之徒

遗忘何等无情。