不在痛苦中而在遗忘中，

It's not in misery but in oblivion,

更绝非怀着喜悦的心情

Not vertically in a mood of joy

大声呼喊着春天

Screaming the spring

越过那古老的冬天，

Over the ancient winter,

他躺下歇歇，我们的呼吸

He'll lie down, and our breath

必将冷却他那圆鼓鼓的脸颊，

Will chill the roundness of his cheeks,

并让他宽阔的嘴回了家。

And make his wide mouth home.

我们必须低声走下狭窄的小道

For we must whisper down the funnel

我们拥有的爱和他血液中的荣耀

The love we had and glory in his blood

沿着管道流淌

Coursing along the channels

直到从土壤里

Until the spout dried up

涌出的喷口干涸

That flowed out of the soil

带着同样精准的力越过所有的季节，

All seasons with the same meticulous power,

而脉管一定会衰退。

But the veins must fail.

他对墓穴尚未有所警觉

He's not awake to the grave

尽管我们轻视狭小的空间

Though we cry down the funnel,

点滴想法分割成如此可怕的瞬间

Splitting a thought into such hideous moments

有如反复溺毙这场热病。

As drown, over and over, this fever.

他死了，回家了，没有任何恋人，

He's dead, home, has no lover,

而在内心，或空空的通道，

But our speaking does not thrive

我们也没有更多的话要说。

In the bosom, or the empty channels.

我们消融的不幸，呼吸到它时，

Our evil, when we breathe it,

我们的堕落，空空如也，

Of dissolution and the empty fall,

不会伤害到他四周的帷幕，

Won't harm the tent around him,

不会被吞吃、被刺入

Uneaten and not to be pierced

被我们的罪或欢乐所伤。

By us in sin or us in gaiety.

而谁会告诉这群好色之徒

And who shall tell the amorist

遗忘何等无情。

Oblivion is so loverless.