8
Only in the realm of Praise may Lament
range, the nymph of the tear-fed stream,
watching over our cascade to ensure
that it strikes clearly on the same rock
that supports the gates and altars. —
Look, around her quiet shoulders dawns
the feeling that among the siblings
of the heart, she must be the youngest.
Jubilation knows, and Longing has admitted, —
only Lament still learns; with slender hands
she counts for nights on end the ancient curse.
Yet suddenly, unpracticed though she is,
she lifts a constellation of our voice
into skies not clouded by her breath.