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Schammasch
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May His Illusion Last Until Dawn's Awakening
He does not want human lips piously
kissing Hair Scented by the mountain breeze,
nor his brow, aglow now like the stars of the firmament.
But it is better to believe that while traversing Space
a star itself has descended out of orbit on this majestic brow,
and encircles it with a diamond's brilliance as a Halo.
Night, waving sadness aside, adorns herself in all her charms
to celebrate the sleep of this incarnation of modesty,
this perfect image of angelic innocence.
The branches bend their lofty tufts over him
to protect him from the dew, and the wind...
twanging its tuneful harp sends
blithe strains across the universal silence
towards those lowered eyelids which,
motionless, seem to witness the cadenced concert of suspended worlds.
He dreams he is contented, that his corporeal nature has changed;
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or at least that he has flown off
upon a purple cloud to another sphere
peopled by beings of the same kind as himself.
May his illusion last until Dawn's Awakening!
He dreams the flowers dance round him
in a ring like immense demented garlands,
and impregnate him with their balmy
perfumes while he sings a hymn of love,
locked in the arms of a magically beautiful human being.
But it is merely twilight mist he embraces,
and when he wakes their arms will no longer be entwined.
Awaken not, hermaphrodite.
Do not open your eyes, I beg you, do not open your eyes.
Sleep forever. Sleep forever.
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