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.