Hyperion's Song Of Destiny

Holy spirits, you walk up there

    in the light, on soft earth.

            Shining god-like breezes

                  touch upon you gently,

                        as a woman's fingers

                              play music on holy strings.

Like sleeping infants the gods

      breathe without any plan;

        the spirit flourishes continually

            in them, chastely kept,

                        as in a small bud,

                                and their holy eyes

                                      look out in still

                                              eternal clearness.

A place to rest

    isn't given to us.

          Suffering humans

                decline and blindly fall

                      from one hour to the next,

                              like water thrown

                                    from cliff to cliff,

                                        year after year,

                                              down into the Unknown.