1.
Sing now a solemn song,
for our hero is dead;
who flailed his fists
against the sky;
now a funeral march.
There is no sweetness in the pain,
no, not yet;
but there shall be tears flowing,
and bitterness.
No, not yet the jubilant frenzy
of flutes, the
exultant horns of triumph!
Pause, all ye mourners,
beside the flower-laden box.
What were our murmurings now
over his pale face,
the somber beauty of his shuttered eyes?
Sing now a song of Death.
He is held captive by the Slayer;
he is whiter than a snowflake;
his heart is cold.
What road shall his feet trod now,
what dust shall he stir,
of seeking, of suffering ?
And what are these wreaths
That we lay about him?
O that in life
he may have been so regarded,
so garlanded!
Now his mouth can revolt in no manner,
not even to fend the worms.
Tell me, people, what is the
value of remembered
eloquence ?
No, not yet the jocund voices;
not yet the whirl of praise.
2.
When we were young we ran in fields,
where morning glories blazed,
whose light chased night,
and gave us the world.
But flowers fade, like the brilliance
of our lost days;
Everything withers,
petals, hearts.
Now let us sit by no sorrowful hearth,
but on some hill
overlooking the sky and the grass,
and watch the children play.
Someday we will learn again to play,
It will come back to us,
somehow, like spring,
ever returning.
O rivulets of summer!
O wildness untamed!
Upon their gossamer wings
bees dream of nectar.
Down in the village
they are dressed for a festival,
our rosy young.
Come, they bid us join them.
3.
The dance of life!
a young girl moves with the
delicacy of lace, and
that boy's face
is rife with the wildest wonder.
I nearly drown in the flight
of lithe and lissome limbs!
O my lady, you are old,
and I am old;
and our hero is underground
along with hopes and fears
we sent to the darkness with him.
Sadly, we realize
our affinity with
the same awful shade.
Let us flee from here,
for it is far too bright
and I'll soon be deaf in this clack
of ring and broach and bracelet!
They may as well be devils
bowing the crazed fiddles;
and I am so disheartened I would fain
be as deaf and dumb as the moon.
4.
The rose in its perfection
astounds us to question,
can we attain what is ethereal.
When will our paths fill
with the effugence of angels
Who will lead us toward...
5.
...Heaven.
To the blare of trumpets we rose up
and pricked our ears as fanfares sounded
in the distance. Nightingales gave
the final earthly call.
Is this the attainment?
The mountains were shaken with thunder,
and rattled the valleys;
the earth shook under the heels of legions.
We stared upwards in astonishment
as the even tore assunder.
Arranged in rank and file we trampled
the grass, but the flowers were immortal
and sprang back up, tall and terrific,
with faces like suns.
We all wept openly into our hands,
each tear like gold.
This is the attainment!
The consummation of suffering and desire
in one moment, in one single, magnificent climax.
At last the voice of the Titan cried,
Ich bin von Gott, und will wieder zu Gott
We heard, and gave praise accordingly.
*
Walk beside me, my love;
between us pure spirit, the sanctity
of Resurrection.
7.17.1987edited10.30.2012
