As One with the Morning Stars
Singing as one with the morning stars,
singing as night drew near to its end
and the light around me came up and drove
the darkness out, and my sun rose—
as I roused my thoughts from the deepest sleep
and woke my limbs as they lay in slumber,
I sought to waken the dawn with a tune
and went to meet the morning with song,
holding my precious lute in hand—
my left was skilled at making it quiver—
with timbrel and flute tied to my shoulder
by cords I'd knot and then let go.
And so I broke out in song to compose,
to see if my poems would soon find favor,
and comfort me there in the fields as I roamed
through wandering's country, which is my home.
I sang, but my flute wouldn't reply,
and nothing was heard from among the branches.
O brothers in mystery, have you ever known
a pipe or lute to refuse my entreaty,
while birds fell silent among the boughs,
and from my roof not a sparrow called?
But I send them greetings, for without any words
they've warned me to put my songbook away
and keep my lines from the eyes of men—
and hide their secrets, as well as I can….
n e x t
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