YOU, HOLY SUN Poem by Tomas Lieske

The sun as fireball right over us and boiling with flames of gas,
while it rests lazily and warms us, giving food and energy and light.

Tough, mathematical sun, inventor of logarithms and epicycles, drawer
of all tangents and colourist of ash-grey and mauve shadow levels.

Great atheist god of light, who with titanic tiara and iron-lined cloaks
irradiates the daily work on earth and blesses and warms it.

Cherished Mediterranean friend above the trembling cattle of Umbria,
bouncing down the village squares and ancient, blood-stained courtyards.

Conspicuous by its absence in the damp, connected, gloomy dungeons
of the papal reign of terror, knocking on the walls as thick as cauldrons.

Burning hiker on the path of stars between the blind and glittering animals,
good-natured champion who lashes out at giants far away and having fun.

Little youth god with whose help love grows, increasing lust by leaps,
the horny thoughts stretch out warm claws to dresses much too short.

Sun, holy godly sun, you stunning chariot full of luminous gas,
which always healed us, be mild and sprinkle your favours on earth.