Through roads paved with the corpses of friends,
we left the black wilderness behind
for a little township rising
by the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are.
On this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, you always scouted
down three-headed roads, and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
by the rosy hands of the sun.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
found far in the east, on the other side of the world,
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you.
The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend.
Third draft, major revision:
Through roads paved with the corpses of friends,
we left the black wilderness behind
for the little township rising from the mouth
of the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are. I remember,
on this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, ever you scouted
down three-headed roads, and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
warmly by the rosy hands of the sun.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world,
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you.
The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend.
Second draft, major revision:
On roads paved with the corpses of friends, we walked, out of the black wilderness with knife-branched trees and ash-covered soil, for the little township rising from the mouth of the river Lethe, the river of oblivion.
Here we are. I remember, on this long journey, you were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed, guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive twigs from the hot hands of my temper, my lust. My steady companion, you twined your tender voice around my paeans in perfect harmony, and, on reaching three-headed roads, you tried each path and ever returned with a map and lamp in hand. You were a good friend.
But you can share my load no longer and all your dreaming days are done. You miss your home's eternal night, where your slits of eyes shine brighter than the stars and your tender frame is ever cradled warmly by the rosy hands of dawn. And my two feet can never stop: my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers made by the edge of the gadfly's knife and filled by the hands of greedy time with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks. Their only cure is a gift of nectar and ambrosia to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world, beyond the kingdoms of the Persians and the Indians and the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks, waiting for a well-sealed ship of grey birch adorned with asphodels, poppy-pods, flecks of hyacinthus, touches of adonis, and the plain white of horns, tusks, and antlers. I give you three golden gifts for the long journey ahead: three tender kisses firmly planted on your lips, flowing through your mouth and tongue and throat to your heart. May they sustain you.
And now, the grey ship arrives, and I can hear its brazen bells ring to the songs of sylphs and seagulls circling round its silver sail. The time for you to pass away and the time for me to be forgotten comes. Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, minor edits, current title:
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat;
We left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth by its mouth,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at oblivion's shore,
leave you at the river's mouth,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a ship,
a ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson,
with the dull gold of nerve and the dull green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a ship with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the rooks circling
around its silken sail,
a ship to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
You were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dying days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
with the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of nectar and ambrosia
made from the burning tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at oblivion's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your throat and to your heart,
choking your cheeks in my milk and my honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the ship arrives,
the ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the ship with bells of bronze and brass
ever ringing to the songs
of the sylphs soaring
over its silken sail,
the ship to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, without edits:
Waking Life
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat,
left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth around it,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at the river's shore,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a boat,
a boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson blood,
with the dull white of nerve and the hard green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a boat with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the ravens that soar above
its sail of raw cow-hide:
a boat to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
And you were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your waking days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
and the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of milk and honey
made from the tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at the river's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your tongue,
choking your cheeks in milk and honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the boat arrives,
the boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the boat with a sail made of silk
sleekly shining in the sunlight,
and blown by a tender wind
ever obeying the crew's command:
the boat to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
