My soul is borne out on the wind.
Through the opaqueness of her earthly case she glitters like a sword.
She is free; she rides her body as the whirlwind the storm.
She is free from the death of the flesh.
Her passage is brief as the lightning,
As the flash of the outgoing sea-gull,
Or the slipping frigate!
She is the juggler who raises the dead,
With whom the spirits speak.
The soul is beautiful! Proud in her beauty she laughs at life
And drinks deep of the day.
And she casts herself on the wing of the wind,
Breasting the uppermost height.
Through the opaqueness of her earthly case she glitters like a sword.
She is free; she rides her body as the whirlwind the storm.
She is free from the death of the flesh.
Her passage is brief as the lightning,
As the flash of the outgoing sea-gull,
Or the slipping frigate!
She is the juggler who raises the dead,
With whom the spirits speak.
The soul is beautiful! Proud in her beauty she laughs at life
And drinks deep of the day.
And she casts herself on the wing of the wind,
Breasting the uppermost height.
Konstantin Balmont (1867 – 1942) Russia
Translated by Edith Chapman Tracy
Source: Poetry, Volume XII. No. 5. August, 1918
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please keep your comments relevant and free from abusive language. Thank you. Note that comments are moderated so it may be a day or two before your comment is posted - irrelevant or abusive comments will not be published.