An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry/Thus sang the Burning Stars

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Each second that passes, ever within our places
In the mystic dance of the worlds
We revolve in the cosmos.
In the lustrous spheres of spirits we burn with a living
Around our heads,
In aureoles
Golden tresses are sparkling,
Extended like resonant lassos
In the flight of the whirlwind.

Into our faces glowing in ecstasy,
The ages breathe coldly
And faint from the joy of our flight,
By the sheen of a grievous pleasure o'erpowered,
With a cry that unendingly soars,
Harmony-laden, exulting,
We sink, in our mystical dancing,
And in our blood, as if buried in roses,
We perish.

Sisters shall rise in our places,
And in the song that the twilight eternally wafted,
In billows ever increasing,
Into spaces afresh and afresh they advance.
In a nebulous dust that arises,
The mystery's gleaming advance-guard.


"The Hands"