But, oftentimes, beneath your tree,
at morning's blush or at the eve's
descent, your voice among the leaves
will flood my ears with poetry
And oftentimes will you suspend
in fingers dim a golden bowl
that holds the image of a soul
perfected at the journey's end.
Powerful Muse of living fame
who often leads us to the grove
in praise of wine, in praise of love
I bear my sorrows in your name.
Sip this blessing from my lips
Mother, dragon, husbandwife,
you, my muse, as dear as life:
for I am honored with your kiss.
And gladly bear from its imprint
a seething wound, a vivid brand
through which strange, quivering chords are sent
and secrets of the holy land!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem