| Born in the Heart of Spring,
On the edge of an alabaster cliff,
White bird-men flew around his crib. The Age was still young,
Nights were short and days long,
And the sun shone cloudlessly. This was not his first birth,
Thus there were no kings or mirth,
Only the warm light to bathe him in. Free from all rules he led his life,
Made the ancient Gods angry,
He was doomed and knew it too well. |
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| On his thirty-third year on the cliff,
The thorn crown was placed on his head,
His fair forefront bled. Blood blinded him,
Sun disappeared, night came over, moonless,
He held his bloody hands out in the darkness.
Stigmatas on his feet,
His weary steps took him to the very edge,
Emptiness was all around. No white wings on his back,
He fell ever faster,
Afraid, the bird-men flew away in a cloud, black.
He is still falling,
When will he reach the foot of
The alabaster cliff? |
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