Aimless he wandered, that wide-eyed boy
beneath the scorching sun the gods controlled.
He said, Make summer mine! (They granted it - and how.)
He didn't know what hit him -

Who'd so long staggered stiltwise down the uncertain paths
unfurling like carpets on this hill of wine,
whose stilted voice had so long shied from song
the gods smelt blasphemy.

No-one can say for sure when that demon-child struck,
when the ivy whipped him and the bulls stood up,
the tigers roared and the snakes flick-flickered
across the crimson scree.

You don't believe it, fine. Just step out from the garden,
and walk, and keep on walking, till you forget all things
and all the names of things, till that old sun just once becomes
the god it really is.

Then gasp and heave, and spit the fatty phlegm
from the astonished mouth, and at dusk where the waters flow,
where the fish rise up to devour the dragonflies, there at last
smash into your true self.

And you're here, in the palace of the meadow-wood
where even the oaks no longer look the same
and the willows and poplars draw down from the sky
the ancient silverlight.

When you return, they will not understand you,
if you return. From this point forth, there'll be
so little to say. You can't find anything older than this.
The light glints in the wine.

Translation: Luke Davies