The Bridges 一首诗,安塞尔.基弗画中的感情.

Wind blows the ribbon thghter before the bridges
The sky grated its deepest blue
along the pilings.
Here and there our shadows
change places in the light.
Pont Mirabeau... Waterloo Bridge...
How can the names bear
carrying the nameless?
Moved by the lost ones
that faith could not carry,
the drums awaken in the river.
All bridges are lonely.
And fame is just as dangerous for them
as for us,though we think
we feel the tread of stars
on our shoulders.
Yet no dream arches
over the slope of our mortality.
It's better to live for the riverbanks,
crossing from one to the other,
watching all day for the chosen one
to cut the ribbon
For he reaches the sun shears
wrapped in fog;and should the light blind him,
the fog will cushion his fall.
Ingeborg Bachmann