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.
