I’ve learned the lore of separation
In bareheaded longing night’s complaint.
The oxen chew, the world's in long duration -
It ‘s time of city’ vigils running late.
These rooster’s night rites I revere, that instant
When, hauling up a load of grief, the throng’s
Tear-stained eyes are peering at the distance
And women’s weeping is the Muse’s songs.
Who can predict, when one says “separation” ,
What kind of parting would it be and what
Should mean to us - that rooster’s exclamation,
When light on the Acropolis is burned
And at the dawn, some new existence prior
When oxen lazily chew roughage at the stall,
Why does the rooster, new life’s town crier,
Flaps wings uneasily atop the city wall?
I love the artless yarn to be in habit:
The shuttle scurries and the spindle hums.
Lo, like a down of swans - you try to dab it -
Barefooted Delia flies straight into your arms!
Oh, our life’s scant fabric! It’s much lower
This tongue of joy of ours, indeed:
What was before, will be repeated over,
Only the strike of recognition is still sweet.
Thus let it be: the figure, small, transparent,
Spreads like a squirrel pelt upon a clean clay plate,
And bending over wax, a maiden makes apparent
What’s given to perceive about night and fate.
In battles men draw lots - that right is given.
For women, wax is what for men is brass.
Not men to ask of Erebus. But women
Have privilege to die while telling fate for us.