船的到来
阿尔穆斯塔法，天选者与蒙爱者，自己时代的曙光，
他在奥法利斯城等待了十二年，等着他的船归来，把他带回
他出生的小岛。
第十二年的九月—收获之月的第七天，他爬上城
墙外面的山冈，向大海一方望去；他看见他的船在薄雾中
驶来。
随后，他的心扉猛然打开，他的喜悦远远地飞越大海。
他闭上双眼，在灵魂的静默中祈祷。
但是当他下山的时候，一阵悲伤袭来，他心里想：
我怎样才能平平安安、不带一丝忧愁地离去呢？不，
我无法离开这座城，精神却不受到创伤。
我在城墙内度过的痛苦时日多么漫长，孤独的夜晚又
多么漫长；谁能无怨无悔地离开他的痛苦和孤独呢？
我在这些街道上散落了太多太多的灵魂碎片，在山间
裸身行走的我的渴望之子也太多太多，我不能抽身离去，却
不承受任何重负和痛苦。
这不是我今日脱掉的一身衣服，而是我亲手撕裂的一
层皮。
这也不是我丢弃的一个念头，而是一颗因饥渴而甜蜜
的心。
然而我不能继续滞留。
召唤万物的大海在召唤我，我必须启程了。
因为，虽然时光在黑夜中燃烧，但留下来就要冻凝、
结晶，被塑进一个模子里。
我乐于把这里的一切都带走。 但我如何办到呢？
声音不能将赋予它羽翼的舌头和嘴唇带走。 它必须独
自寻找苍穹。
雄鹰将抛下窠巢，孤身飞过太阳。
此时他抵达山脚，再一次转向大海，他看见他的船正
驶近港口，船头上的水手，都是他故里的同胞。
于是他的灵魂向他们发出呼喊，他说：
我远古母亲的儿子们啊，你们是弄潮的骑士，
多少次你们在我的梦中航行。 现在你们终于驶入了我
的觉醒，这是我更深的梦境。
我已经整装待发，我的急切仿佛满扬的帆，在等待
风来。
我只须在这宁静的空气中再呼吸一次，我只须回首再
投下深情的一瞥，
然后我就会站在你们中间，成为水手中的一名水手。
而你，浩瀚的大海，不眠的母亲，
唯有你是大江和小溪的安宁与自由，
这条溪流只须再转过一道弯，只须在这林间空地再一
次潺潺低语，
然后我就会来到你身边，一滴无穷之水汇入一片无穷
的海洋。
他一边行走，一边远远地看见男男女女离开田地和葡
萄园，急急忙忙赶往城门。
他听见他们呼唤他的名字，在田间奔走相告，呼喊着
说他的船来了。
于是他对自己说：
离别之日能否成为相聚之时？
我的夜晚莫非真的是我的黎明？
那个把犁铧留在田垄之间的人，或是那个停下榨酒的
转轮的人，我该给他什么呢？
我的心能否成为一棵硕果累累的树，好让我采了果子
献给他们？
我的欲望能否如清泉涌流，好让我斟满他们的杯子？
我能否做一架竖琴，让那强者之手抚摸，或是一支长
笛，让他的气息吹入？
我是沉默的探索者，我在沉默中找到了什么宝藏，让
我可以自信地施与？
如果这是我收获的日子，我在哪片田地里播下了种子，
在哪个被遗忘的季节？
如果这真是我举起灯笼的时刻，那里面燃烧的不是我
的火焰。
我举起的灯笼将空虚而晦暗，
那守夜之人将为它添满灯油，再将它点燃。
他说了这些话。但他心里还有很多话没有说。 因为他
自己说不出自己更深的秘密。
他进城的时候，众人都来迎接他，异口同声地呼唤
着他。
城里的长老们走上前来，说：
先不要离开我们。
你一直是我们暮色中的正午，你的青春给了我们梦想。
你在我们中间不是陌生人，也不是宾客，你是我们的
儿子，我们挚爱的亲人。
不要让我们的眼睛因渴望你的面容而受苦。
男祭司和女祭司对他说道：
且不要让海浪把我们分开，让你在我们中间度过的岁
月成为回忆。
你像一个精灵走在我们中间，你的影子是映照我们脸
庞的光芒。
我们深深地爱着你。 但我们的爱是无言的，它始终蒙
着面纱。
但现在它向你大声呼喊，要在你面前真实相对。
爱从来不知道自己的深浅，直到分别的时刻。
其他人也走上前来恳求他。 但他没有回答。 他只是低
下头；站在身旁的人看见他的眼泪落在胸前。
随后他和众人往庙宇前的大广场走去。
一个名叫阿尔弥特拉的女人走出圣殿。她是位女预
言家。
他无限温柔地望着她，因为当时他来到城里不过一天，
正是她个追随他、笃信他。
她向他致敬说：
神的先知，为了追求终极目标，你一直向远方寻觅着
你的船。
现在你的船来了，你必须走了。
你深沉地渴望你的记忆之乡，渴望你更高欲望的居所；
我们的爱不会束缚你，我们的需求也不会阻挠你。
然而，在你离开我们之前，我们请求你对我们说话，
向我们传递你的真理。
我们要把它传承给我们的子孙，他们再传承给他们的
子孙，让它不至灭绝。
在你的孤独中，你关照过我们的时日；在你的清醒中，
你倾听过我们睡梦中的哭泣和欢笑。
因此，现在请你向我们透露我们自己，将你发现的一
切从生到死的事，都尽情告诉我们。
他回答说：
奥法利斯的人民啊，除了此时激荡于你们灵魂中的事
物，我还能说什么呢？
The Coming of the Ship
Almustafa， the chosen and the beloved， who was
a dawn unto his own day， had waited twelve years in the
city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear
him back to the isle of his birth.
And in the twelfth year， on the seventh day of Ielool，
the month of reaping， he climbed the hill without the city
walls and looked seaward; and he beheld his ship coming
with the mist.
Then the gates of his heart were flung open， and his joy
flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in
the silences of his soul.
But as he descended the hill， a sadness came upon him，
and he thought in his heart:
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay， not
without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its
walls， and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can
depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered
in these streets， and too many are the children of my
longing that walk naked among these hills， and I cannot
withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
It is not a garment I cast off this day， but a skin that I
tear with my own hands.
Nor is it a thought I leave behind me， but a heart made
sweet with hunger and with thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me， and I
must embark.
For to stay， though the hours burn in the night， is to
freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how
shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave
it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly
across the sun.
Now when he reached the foot of the hill， he turned
again towards the sea， and he saw his ship approaching
the harbour， and upon her prow the mariners， the men of
his own land.
And his soul cried out to them， and he said:
Sons of my ancient mother， you riders of the tides，
How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you
come in my awakening， which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go， and my eagerness with sails full set
awaits the wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in this still air， only
another loving look cast backward，
And then I shall stand among you， a seafarer among
seafarers.
And you， vast sea， sleepless mother，
Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the
stream，
Only another winding will this stream make， only
another murmur in this glade，
And then shall I come to you， a boundless drop to a
boundless ocean.
And as he walked he saw from afar men and women
leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening
towards the city gates.
And he heard their voices calling his name， and
shouting from field to field telling one another of the
coming of his ship.
And he said to himself:
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough
in midfurrow， or to him who has stopped the wheel of his
winepress?
Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit
that I may gather and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill
their cups?
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch
me， or a flute that his breath may pass through me?
A seeker of silences am I， and what treasure have I
found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest， in what fields have I sowed
the seed， and in what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern，
it is not my flame that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern，
And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and
he shall light it also.
These things he said in words. But much in his heart
remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his
deeper secret.
And when he entered into the city all the people came
to meet him， and they were crying out to him as with one
voice.
And the elders of the city stood forth and said:
Go not yet away from us.
A noontide have you been in our twilight， and your
youth has given us dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us， nor a guest， but our son
and our dearly beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:
Let not the waves of the sea separate us now， and the
years you have spent in our midst become a memory.
You have walked among us a spirit， and your shadow
has been a light upon our faces.
Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love，
and with veils has it been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you， and would stand
revealed before you.
And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth
until the hour of separation.
And others came also and entreated him. But he
answered them not. He only bent his head; and those
who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.
And he and the people proceeded towards the great
square before the temple.
And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose
name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.
And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness，
for it was she who had first sought and believed in him
when he had been but a day in their city.
And she hailed him， saying:
Prophet of God， in quest of the uttermost， long have
you searched the distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come， and you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for the land of your memories
and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our
love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us， that you speak to us
and give us of your truth.
And we will give it unto our children， and they unto
their children， and it shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with our days， and
in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and
the laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves， and tell us all
that has been shown you of that which is between birth
and death.
And he answered，
People of Orphalese， of what can I speak save of that
which is even now moving within your souls?
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