The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, January 6, 2024

Anything Can Happen

Anything can happen. You know how JupiterWill mostly wait for clouds to gather headBefore he hurls the lightning? Well, just nowHe galloped his thunder cart and his horsesAcross a clear blue sky. It shook the earthAnd the clogged underearth, the River Styx,The winding streams, the Atlantic shore itself.Anything can happen, the tallest towersBe overturned, those in high places daunted,Those overlooked regarded. Stropped-beak FortuneSwoops, making the air gasp, tearing the crest off one,Setting it down bleeding on the next.Ground gives. The heaven's weightLifts up off Atlas like a kettle-lid.Capstones shift, nothing resettles right.Telluric ash and fire-spores boil away.
 
 
--Horace
Translated by Seamus Heaney

 

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)