Helian

In the spirit's solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
The son of Pan in the grey marble.

At eventide on the terrace we got drunk on brown wine
The red peach glows under the foliage.
Tender sonata, joyous laughter.

Lovely is this silence of the night.
On the dark plains
We gather with shepherds and the white stars.

When autumn rises
The grove is a sight of sober clarity.
Along the red walls we loiter at ease
And the round eyes follow the flight of birds.
In the evening pale water gathers in the dregs of burial urns.

Heaven celebrates, sitting in bare branches.
In hallowed hands the yeoman carries bread and wine
And fruit ripens in the peace of a sunny chamber.

o how grave is the countenance of those dear ones deceased.
Yet the soul is gladdened by righteous contemplation.

Mighty is the silence of the desolate garden,
When the young novice wreathes his brow with brown leaves,
His breath drinks in icy gold.

Hands that touch the age ofbluish waters
Or in the chill night the white cheeks of his sisters.

A stroll past welcoming rooms is quiet and harmonious,
Where solitude is and the stir of the sycamore tree,
Where perhaps the thrush is singing still.

Lovely is Man and appearing in darkness,
When astounded he sets arms and legs in motion,
And his tranquil eyes roll in crimson hollows.

At supper the stranger is lost in the black ruin ofN ovember,
Under rotting branches, passing walls filled with pestilence,
Where the saintly brother had earlier walked,
Lost in the gentle string playing of his madness,

o how lonely is the ending of the evening breeze.
In death the head is inclined in the darkness of the olive tree.

Shattering is the decline of our race.
At this hour the eyes of the gazer are filled
With the gold of his stars.

At evening a carillon that chimes no more dies away,
Ruined are the black walls by the square,
The dead soldier calls to prayer.

A pallid angel
The son steps into the empty house of his fathers.

The sisters have gone far away to white old men.
At night the sleeper found them among the pillars of the hall,
Returned from sad pilgrimages.

He found them asleep under the columns of the hallway.
Oh hair stained with dung and worms
As his silver feet stepped on it
And on those who died in echoing rooms.

Oh you palms under midnight's burning rain,
When the servants flogged those tender eyes with nettles,
The hollyhock's early fruit
Beheld your empty grave in wonder.

Fading moons sail quietly
Over the sheets of the feverish lad,
Into the silence of winter.

At the bank of Kidron a great mind is lost in musing,
Under a tree, the tender cedar,
Stretched out under the father's blue eyebrows,
Where a shepherd drives his flock to pastures at night.
Or there are screams which escape the sleep;
When an iron angel approaches man in the grove,
The holy man's flesh melts over burning coals.

Purple wine climbs about the mud-cottage,
Sheaves of faded corn sing;
The buzz of bees; the crane's flight.
In the evening the souls of the resurrected gather on rocky paths.

Lepers behold their image in dark water;
Or they lift the hemp of their dung soiled attire,
And weep to the soothing wind, as it drifts down from the rosy hill.

Slender maidens grope their way through the narrow lanes of night;
They hope for the gracious shepherd.
Tenderly, songs ring out from the huts on weekend.

Let the song pay homage to the boy,
To his madness to his white eyebrows and to his passage,
To the decaying corpse, who opened his blue eyes.
Oh how sad is this reunion.

The stairs of madness in black apartments -
The matriarch's shadow emerged under the open door
When Helian's soul beheld his image in a rosy mirror;
And from his brow bled snow and leprosy.

The walls extinguished the stars
And the white effigies of light.

From the carpet rise skeletons, escaping their graves,
Fallen crosses sit silent on the hill,
The night's purple wind is sweet with frankincense.

Oh ye broken eyes over black gaping jaws,
When the grandson in the solitude
Of his tender madness muses over a darker ending,
The blue eyelids of the silent god sink upon him.