that the old burghers paled with lust and shut their eyes,
fearing to shame their lives, dear God, in their old age.
A frenzied hermit held a heavy incense cup,
knocked on all doors, cast fumes to drive the demons off,
and a rich funeral slowly followed with slain heads 1140
of a dead chieftain’s slaves so that in the dark grave
they still might serve him well, bake bread, and wash his clothes.
All the onlookers hissed and yelled, old merchantmen 1143
seized their long staffs and chased the dead man mockingly. 1144
Amid the hired lamenters and the screeching crones 1145
a maid like a musk-tigress passed in rut until
the funeral turned to wedding pomp, the dead men’s sons
stopped in their tracks, forgot their father’s fate, and sighed.
The wandering man then sweetly shut his dazzled eyes.
One day by a large stream he’d seen a black-skinned girl, 1150
stripped naked on the bank, who lay and watched the waves;
in her left hand she held an apple and in her right 1152
a brilliant small canary with clipped yellow wings
that in her black palm raised its throat and sweetly sang;
the village stretched now like that girl by the stream’s bank. 1155
But as he held his vision still in cleansing eyes,
he heard a lyre with silver bells ring at his feet,
and then with clear eyes saw a bard lustrous in shade
who knelt and played upon a monstrous throbbing lyre
with leaping fingers dancing on all seven chords, 1160
and flames ascended from his flowing curly hair.
All the crowd clustered round and hung upon his lips,
the old men gathered up their wares and left their shops,
the young men left their pestles, the young maids drew close,
and chieftains spread embroidered rugs and sat cross-legged. 1165
With glutted longing, steaming in the evening shade,
the whole town raised its ear to grasp the latest tune,
and two sly blackbirds on an olive tree stooped low
to steal the song and sing it to the trees in spring.
Then the black minstrel raised his ancient glowing head, 1170
puffed up his chest and throat, and through his open mouth
the new song soared and hovered like an eagle in the sun:
“Oho, my lads, perk up your ears, set your minds spinning,
we’re but a black fistful of earth, yet our throats sing,
and if one falls for the worm’s food, don’t pity him, lads, 1175
for he had time to raise his voice in the wilderness,
and though his dust turn to black dust, his song remains;
I too shall sing my song before my own throat rots!
Far on a distant shore, at the world’s utter end,
for two moons on a bear-hide, on a bloodstained bed, 1180
an old king fought with Death, nor would resign his soul.
The king’s son stood by the gold pillows and begged Death:
‘Dear Death, I ask one favor only: raise your sword,
seize my old father by his hair, give me the crown!
I’ve grown old, raised my children and grandchildren too, 1185
but still the old king won’t give up the world’s gold keys.
O Curse, rise if you’re sitting! If you’re standing, run!’
The old king heard his son’s cruel words and heaved a sigh:
’O Prince Elias, aye, don’t hurry, you won’t wear
my crown until you hear cocks crow with human speech.’ 1190
When the prince heard these words, his flashing eyes grew dark,
he leapt up, buckled on his sword, wound round his head
tightly a crimson kerchief thrice to hold his brains,
and a black viper with three flaming poisons stung
his heart as his hot fists flared up and flailed the air: 1195
‘Dear God, send me to war, divert my frantic mind
that my exhausted hands may not kill my own father!’
God heard his pain and raised a war; at once the prince
plunged deep, slashed row on row of throats, and toward the end
dragged lengthy necklaces of stooped slaves tightly noosed 1200
until at dusk his palms had brimmed, his wrath had shrunk,
but his dark soul still seethed, unslaked, unsatisfied.
His friends caroused on terraces with food and drink,
but the lone mountain tree is beaten by all winds,
and the prince passed down streets until he gained the woods. 1205
Oho, my lads, perk up your ears, they’re still unrotted,
for a small bird, a small, small bird shall come to sing.
Then the cock-pheasant saw the prince and flapped its wings
and on a tall black cypress sang with human speech:
‘O Prince Elias, don’t be sad, don’t be downhearted, 1210
you’ll never wear a regal crown or crimson shoes
or ride a pure white elephant with golden studs.’
The prince stood still and listened to the dappled wings
as the sun sank and the stars flooded the dark air
and a thin tailless viper reared in his burning heart: 1215
‘Cock-pheasant, aye, my father shall descend to dust;
cock-pheasant, aye, although my lands fall to the crows
my soul burns upright in my breast and will not fade;
whether fate wills or not, I’ll wear the golden crown!’
The embellished feathers fluttered and the cypress swayed: 1220
‘O Prince Elias, heavy heart, your boast is great;
loosen your crimson kerchief, kick the world goodbye,
hang a carnation from your ear and seize a lyre.
All flow on toward the sea and drown in that dark flood,
great towns and all their souls submerge, all women rot, 1225
all gold crowns rot, and even gods rot like the trees;
don’t cling to them, O Prince, they fade like whirling smoke,
the only deathless flame is man’s own gallant song!
O Prince Elias, aye, if you’re a brave man truly
then choose the loftiest crown of all for your gray hair.’ 1230
The king’s son laughed, turned toward the town with muttering heart,
nor knew on what to cling nor where to go, but roamed
from village door to door, then chose one at long length
and knocked upon the master craftsman’s workshop door:
‘Aye, master craftsman, make me an intrepid lyre 1235
worked skillfully with seven chords to hold my pain.’
The master craftsman chose his woods and carved a lyre;
he made the body of linden and the lid of lime,
he made the pegs of ivory and the scrolls of rosewood,
he made the bridge of gold hung with a maiden’s tress. 1240
Then Prince Elias seized the lyre and plunged in woods:
‘I’ll crouch amid the tall trees of the wilderness
and play my lyre, dear God, to tame my savage heart.’
Seven times with his hand he struck the holy lyre
and seven times the strings stayed mute and the song vanished, 1245
nor did his heavy heart find rest or his pain dwindle.
The king’s son raged, kicked at the earth, and his mind shook:
‘I’ll rise in wrath and kill the master craftsman now
for he forgot to string good chords and give them voice!’
But two long many-colored wings flew over his head: 1250
‘Ah, Prince Elias, songs are paid for dearly, lad,
the lyre won’t speak or sing because it thirsts for blood;
your lyre thirsts to drink the blood of seven he
ads
so that its seven chords may leap and roar in song.’
The king’s son laughed with scorn and stroked his dark mustache: 1255
‘Cock-pheasant, aye, that’s easily done! I’ll seize my bow
and soak my lyre with seventeen, not seven, heads,
for the earth’s choked with bodies and my quiver is full!’
But the wings hung so heavily that the cypress stooped:
‘O Prince Elias, aye, don’t boast, don’t stroke your beard, 1260
your lyre longs to taste the blood of your seven sons!’
Then Prince Elias groaned, plucked at his thorny beard,
grabbed his sword frenziedly and thrust it in his calf,
then slowly walked, knocked on his door, stood in his court,
and raised a cry and called his seven sons before him: 1265
‘Aye, lads, grim War has raised his head! I’ll seize my weapons,
and you, my first-born son, rise up! Only we two,
father and son, shall wade through our foes’ blood that all
our grandsons and our great-grandsons may tell one day
how two, father and son, cut down two thousand foes.’ 1270
His son leapt up and thrust his sharp sword in his belt,
both spurred their steeds and dashed straight to the battlefield;
the son slashed left and gleaned the earth, the father right,
and his mute lyre heaved and tossed on his broad back.
Dawn rose and mounted toward high noon, the sun sank low, 1275
until at dusk the son, drowned in his blood, cried out:
‘Father, I’m dying! Greet my children! Ah, farewell!’
Then Prince Elias roared, scattered his foes before him,
flung his dead son, his first-born son, on his strong back,
and his tears muddied earth from battlefield to town. 1280
His lyre then plunged in his son’s lion blood and drank,
and as it drank, it swelled and creaked, tossed on its back
till a chord slowly stretched a gutstring through its heart.
He cast his son in his court heavily, slaves pressed close,
washed and rewashed their master, but no washing helped. 1285
He took his lyre drenched in blood, plunged in the woods,
and when he was certain that no soul could watch his shame,
he rolled on earth and struck himself till the trees cracked
and the cock-pheasant passed and flapped its dappled wings:
‘Don’t weep, my dear, for all things fall to earth and rot; 1290
some fall like leaves of the plane tree, and kingdoms fall,
even my lustrous wings shall fall and my throat rot,
but the song, Prince Elias, the song shall never fade!
Rise up, there’s work to do, for six sons still remain!’
Then Prince Elias rose and stumbled down the road, 1295
dug in the earth, buried his son and barred the door
of the cool tomb, lay down and seized his lyre, then stooped
and struck it with his heavy hand as his heart groaned—
but the lyre lowed like a sick cow and would not sing,
nor would the heavy heart of the stunned king grow light. 1300
He shouted in his courtyard then, called his six sons,
then groaned, reached out his hand and chose the second youth:
‘Rise up, my son, take up your sword, we march to war!
My hot fist throbs with flaming strife and will not cool.’
Father and son clove heads in war’s red slaughterhouse; 1305
dawn rose, then mounted toward high noon, but when dusk fell
the great son crashed to earth and moaned like a slain bull:
‘Father, I’m dying! Greet my loving wife! Farewell!’
Again in the moon’s glow he raised him on his back;
again the lyre swelled, the second blood-drenched chord 1310
drank deep, then spread and twined about the twisted pegs.
Oho, my lads, perk up your ears, let your hearts break!
For seven dawns two horsemen dashed through the town’s gates
and though both father and son returned all seven times,
the father fetched upon his back a headless son. 1315
The anguished prince then tripped and staggered on the stones,
the laneways brimmed with blood, the wretched courts with tombs,
and the lyre licked its lips, sated with precious blood,
till seven voices, seven chords, roared in its heart.
Old men then broke in wild lament, the women keened, 1320
and in his soul’s great pain the old king heard their wails,
sat upright on his pillows, spread his hands and cried:
‘Ah, Prince Elias, may you be cursed with a father’s curse!’
But Prince Elias mutely gazed on his shrunk father,
looked on the wretched courtyard tombs, on all the world, 1325
and heard a curse crow like a cock within his breast:
‘Father, may you be cursed, and cursed the seed you sowed,
and cursed all sons and sweetest life and golden crowns!’
He spoke, and joyed to feel his entrails rip like rags.
Flinging the seven-chorded lyre on his bent back, 1330
he bound his waist with rushes, let his hair float free
that had in seven days and seven nights grown white,
nor sighed nor groaned, but opened wide the palace door
and with great strides passed through his old ancestral town,
passed through his castle, hamlets, rivers, and strode on; 1335
his blood flowed till the dust beneath his feet turned clay,
seven swords pierced his heart, he cast full seven shadows.
He passed through fields and mountains, crossed the sea, strode on,
until one dawn I saw him hanging on a high cliff.
Like seven bonfires, seven rose trees blazed about him 1340
and seven twittering swallows in the sunlight played;
cock-pheasants flew by silently, the clouds sailed on,
a leopard leapt with joy, and a small cricket clung
to the old childless hermit’s white and bloodstained hair.
Slowly he sat on earth cross-legged, caressed a flower, 1345
hung it above his hairy ear through thickened blood
then swiftly shook his shoulders in the laughing light,
two wings that longed to flee, took down his clotted lyre,
laid it upon his knees, and the deep chasm glowed.
Touched by his fingertips, before his hand could strike, 1350
the lyre like a living heart throbbed on his knees;
its wood sang like a thrush, its seven sated chords
leapt like man’s sometime laughing sometime weeping heart,
and the song soared like deathless water through clear air. 1354
He sang and his heart lightened, his dark mind grew cool, 1355
his sons flew past like swallows, bloomed like singing flames,
and his old father sank low like the setting sun.
Memory perched on freedom’s highest branch and sang
without a single care, with joy, a mother finch
watching her small eggs gleaming in the azure sky. 1360
When the lyre stopped and the earth grew mute, the lyrist rose
and set off southward, followed by the faithful earth;
he talked with kings and then passed on, he talked with women,
he stooped and listened to their gossip, sweet as water,
he talked with ghosts, with beasts, he sank in realms of sleep, 1365
in that cool coal-black river where he swam all night,
then clutched and drank from earth’s two udders, Life and Death.
Ah, Prince Elias, aye, god-slayer, turtle decoy-dove,
you stalk like an ascet
ic in your spotted rags,
with snow-white hair and savage eyes, with flaming lips. 1370
Gulls dart above you swiftly, worms crawl at your feet,
and all, three stories high, flow swiftly on to sea;
O Prince, I’ve no more need of you! Good voyage now!
One dark night as I huddled in some ilex shrubs
watching your fingers strike as your lips gaped in song, 1375
I plundered all your singing tricks and picked your brains;
now may the fishes eat you, may your larynx rot,
don’t think that we, too, Prince, have no sweet throat to sing!”
The bard then bit his lips and the song suddenly stopped,
he wiped his sweat, then laughed, and opened his wool-sack: 1380
“Heigh ho! my throat’s sung well, but hunger chokes it now.
By God, although a song’s immortal, it’s a beast
and needs lean meat to strengthen, wine to spout and roar.
All are the belly’s woof, my lads, and bread’s the warp,
the body is a whirring loom that never rests, 1385
and now that my song’s ended, here’s the secret, lads:
I’m starved! Stuff bread in my wool-sack, don’t let me croak!”
He took his empty wool-sack then and went the rounds,
and all pressed close to give him gifts: one gave him bread,
another dates and flasks of wine, another meat, 1390
ladies gave cinnamon flowers, widows threw him roses,
maidens cast quince and apples, boys cast honeyed sweets, 1392
and as he felt his sack grow heavy, he laughed and said:
“Farewell, my sack’s grown pregnant and my heart swells so
you’d think, by God, that both of them were belly-brothers! 1395
Besides, what do you think a song is made of, lads?
It’s made—I swear it!—of old wine and lean goat’s meat!”
He spoke, maids gazed and marveled, and householders laughed,
but though he seemed half-witted, eagles filled his eyes,
and though he touched no maiden, he enjoyed them all 1400
and slept with all at midnight in the open fields.
But he was wed now to the four winds, and flung his lyre
beside his bloated wool-sack, then trudged on to fetch it
to other towns, a still unslaked, unsated beast.
When the crowd left, the great ascetic like a ghost 1405
rose from the shades and reached his calm hand toward the bard:
“Aye, lustrous bird of fancy, fold your flapping wings,
I want to cast a precious word in your wool-sack.”
The savage singer in the darkness scowled and raised
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