I
Children, who come toward us
On their splendid paths…
One of them, barefoot,
Laughs in the dry leaves.
We loved his manner
Of coming in late
But as it’s allowed
When time stops,
Happy to hear from afar
His simple syrinx,
He wins, Marsyas babe, over the god
Who knows only numbers.
II
And quickly he would lead us
There where the night falls
He who’s two steps before
Us, and who looking back
Always laughs, grasping
At the branches making
Light out of the fruits
Of weightless presence
He would go where there is naught
One can know, but,
In love with his song, bemused, enlightened now,
The honey bee is his partner.
III
Ceres would owe a lot
Sweating and spindrifted,
And, waiting, should search
Throughout the world.
She should have granted him
Repose, refuge,
And that which she has lost
She would recognize
In his twilight plaintext
And, with a cry, embracing
And laughing borne away
In her vehement hands
Once again in the place, at night
Beneath the rustling trees
She makes an end, knocking
At the doors he’s closed.
Translation c Copyright 2010 by Christopher Fulkerson
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Copyright 2010 by Christopher Fulkerson
Posted 4/27/2010.
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