That with a sculptor's splendid and tragical gesture,
Kneading the sphere of his tractable clay,
Transforms the secret of things in accord with his vision's splendour,
In the torturing pang of creation,
Ever void of content.
THUS SANG THE BURNING STARS
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
Beauty.
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.
