I think continually of those who were truly
great. Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history Through corridors
of light where the hours are suns, Endless and singing. Whose lovely
ambition Was that their lips, still touched with fire, Should tell of the
spirit clothed from head to foot in song. And who hoarded from the spring
branches The desires falling across their bodies like
blossoms.
What is precious is never to forget The delight
of the blood drawn from ancient springs Breaking through rocks in worlds
before our earth; Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning
light, Nor its grave evening demand for love; Never to allow gradually the
traffic to smother With noise and fog the flowering of the
spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest
fields See how these names are fêted by the waving grass, And by the
streamers of white cloud, And whispers of wind in the listening sky; The
names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts
the fire's center. Born of the sun, they traveled a short while towards the
sun, And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
