Your burnt offspring's smoke will wind
Peacefully towards the skies
Only if you bear in mind
That when you go to the sun,
Your dark shadow is behind.
Silent slave whom the grim lord
Summons by a silent gesture,
He takes heed, humble and awed,
Of the slightest beckoning,
And keeps everything well scored.
He's your bondman when your flight
Is directed to the sun;
He hurts not, he's out of sight;
Holy rays surround your forehead,
And you do advance in light.
But your shadow councils ill
When you leave the sun behind;
He will cloud your face until
Your keen eyes become purblind -
He is nothing but ill-will!
Shadow, sun, shrine, smoke, and glow!
Useless is my tale, unless
You have understood it. So -
You may choose! You are just starting;
I have long been on the go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem