06-06-2013, 02:00 PM
My favorite poem of all time!
Raven, George Seferis
Years like wings. What does the motionless raven remember?
What do the dead close to the roots of trees remember?
Your hands had the color of an apple ready to fall,
and that voice which always returns, that low voice.
Those who travel watch the sail and the stars
they hear the wind they hear the other sea beyond the wind
near them like a closed shell, they don't hear
anything else, don't look among the cypress shadows
for a lost face, a coin, don't ask
seeing a raven on a dry branch what it remembers.
It remains motionless just over my hours
like the soul of an eyeless statue;
there's a whole crowd gathered in that bird
thousands of people forgotten, wrinkles obliterated
broken embraces and uncompleted laughter,
arrested works, silent stations
a deep sleep of golden spangles.
It remains motionless. It gazes at my hours. What does it remember?
There are many wounds inside those invisible people within it
suspended passions waiting for the Second Coming
humble desires cleaving to the ground
children slaughtered and women exhausted at daybreak.
Does it weigh the dry branch down? Does it weigh down
the roots of the yellow tree, the shoulder
of other men, strange figures
sunk in the ground, not daring to touch even a drop of water?
Does it weigh down anywhere?
Your hands had a weight like hands in water
in the sea caves, a light careless weight
pushing the sea away to the horizon to the islands
with that movement we make sometimes when we dismiss an ugly thought.
The plain is heavy after the rain; what does the black
static flame against the gray sky remember
wedged between man and the memory of man
between the wound and the hand that inflicted the wound a black lance,
the plain darkened drinking the rain, the wind dropped
my own breath's not enough, who will move it?
Within memory, a gulf--a startled breast
between the shadows struggling to become man and woman again
stagnant life between sleep and death.
Your hands always moved towards the sea's slumber
caressing the dream that gently ascended the golden spiderweb
bearing in to the sun the host of constellations
the closed eyelids the closed wings...
Raven, George Seferis
Years like wings. What does the motionless raven remember?
What do the dead close to the roots of trees remember?
Your hands had the color of an apple ready to fall,
and that voice which always returns, that low voice.
Those who travel watch the sail and the stars
they hear the wind they hear the other sea beyond the wind
near them like a closed shell, they don't hear
anything else, don't look among the cypress shadows
for a lost face, a coin, don't ask
seeing a raven on a dry branch what it remembers.
It remains motionless just over my hours
like the soul of an eyeless statue;
there's a whole crowd gathered in that bird
thousands of people forgotten, wrinkles obliterated
broken embraces and uncompleted laughter,
arrested works, silent stations
a deep sleep of golden spangles.
It remains motionless. It gazes at my hours. What does it remember?
There are many wounds inside those invisible people within it
suspended passions waiting for the Second Coming
humble desires cleaving to the ground
children slaughtered and women exhausted at daybreak.
Does it weigh the dry branch down? Does it weigh down
the roots of the yellow tree, the shoulder
of other men, strange figures
sunk in the ground, not daring to touch even a drop of water?
Does it weigh down anywhere?
Your hands had a weight like hands in water
in the sea caves, a light careless weight
pushing the sea away to the horizon to the islands
with that movement we make sometimes when we dismiss an ugly thought.
The plain is heavy after the rain; what does the black
static flame against the gray sky remember
wedged between man and the memory of man
between the wound and the hand that inflicted the wound a black lance,
the plain darkened drinking the rain, the wind dropped
my own breath's not enough, who will move it?
Within memory, a gulf--a startled breast
between the shadows struggling to become man and woman again
stagnant life between sleep and death.
Your hands always moved towards the sea's slumber
caressing the dream that gently ascended the golden spiderweb
bearing in to the sun the host of constellations
the closed eyelids the closed wings...
'Because the barbarians will arrive today;and they get bored with eloquence and orations.' CP Cavafy