By Richard Mather
Don’t fall into the wild abyss, O bright Apollo,
And leave me lonely;
Look upwards, beyond, and fear the Overman.
Stop looking for the words that blow in the sand.
Instead speak the song that he has made;
And search the places where he has raised the perfect ones.
O Apollo, does your spirit not awaken?
Does the anguish of your heart not feel like a wheel that refuses to turn?
Look up and see the prophet descend.
Come; let us pity the stars for they are going out one by one.
You dream of truth, of something formless yet complete.
So why do you boast of shapes and lines
That delineate the world we’re in.
The wounded in their tents have no stomach for this:
They are tired, and so am I.
O bright Apollo, my dullness shames me.
I have cursed the sun, the storm and the earthquake.
Still, I am in two minds about it,
And there you are Apollo, hiding beneath a fig tree,
Daydreaming of a mysterious writer, imbibing a fresh light.
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