Look at some nations! The height of their achievement
To be an image of some other tribe,
To mock its gestures and without concealment
Follow its lead, its customs to inbibe.
Their sparkling trinkets are an imitation,
They blindly copy every single deed,
Without initiative, such hapless nation
Is but a shadow of some foreign breed.
And now, old bard, try your own worth to measure
Look in your bosom, the workshop of your soul!
Perhaps the Gods loaned you a golden treasure,
Where did you leave it, what did you extol?
You forced yourself to fit a patterned image,
A mold that pleased the masses for the while,
Your golden lyre sang a foreign language
You grasped the shadows of some borrowed style.
In trembling fears, distrustful of your moment,
You oft refused to undertake own tasks
And often borrowed for a mere adornment
The sparkle of some borrowed, jeweled masks.
When out the rags you have gathered far and near
You sew your garment like a laughing clown,
Until your inner self must disappear,
Are you not worse than I, the shadow of your frown?
CUP OF YOUTH
A dying lustre lingers as in fright
Upon his sunken cheeks and greyish hair,
Upon the wrinkled face and eyes that stare
Out of the window at the charming night.
How sweet to gaze into the golden breeze,
To watch the flight of swallows, flies and bees,
And see the blooming trees snow laden tresses.
About his temples, warm evening breezes glide,
Laughter and song ring out on every side
While the soul imbibes the evening’s warm caresses.
The dreaming man sees in bewitching splendour
Time long gone by, his heart hears the refrain
Of mighty longing and a grief so tender.
“Come back once more. Be young, be young again . . .”
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