你怯懦地祈助的
别人的著作救不了你
你不是别人，此刻你正身处
自己的脚步编织起的迷宫的中心之地
耶稣或者苏格拉底
所经历的磨难救不了你
就连日暮时分在花园里圆寂的
佛法无边的悉达多也于你无益
你手写的文字，口出的言辞
都像尘埃一般一文不值
命运之神没有怜悯之心
上帝的长夜没有尽期
你的肉体只是时光，不停流逝的时光
你不过是每一个孤独的瞬息
英文版
The writings left behind by those whom
Your fears implore won’t have to save you;
You are not the others and you see yourself
Now at the center of the labyrinth woven
By your own steps.
The agonies of Jesus or
Socrates will not save you,
nor will the Strength of Golden Siddhartha who,
At the end of the day,
accepted death In the garden.
The word written By your hand or the verb spoken By your lips,
these too are dust.
Fate has no pity,
And God’s night is infinite.
Your matter is time, ceaseless Time.
You are each solitary moment.
