Night.
On the wide plain, surrounded
by the sacred forest
the altars burn in a ring of fire.
There are so many.
The oak trees’ verdure rustles quietly
and the smoke entwines serpent-like
obscuring the remote sky’s
blueness;
the flames’ shroud swallows
the stars' twinkling.
And all around—the kneeling throng
mesmerized by prayerful ecstasy.
Now the holy ritual cycle
is finished—the ethereal echo
of altar hymns and priests’ songs
fades,
the plaintive mourners’ drone
subsides,
the altars’ flames die,
on a few
now only embers smolder.
But from one the flame brightens
and rises higher--
above the broad branched oaks,
as if daring to touch
the Primordial throne.
It’s the altar the Creator kindled,
the great ancient one – old Krivis.
As white as frozen snow,
this old one;
the reddish streaks of
reflected flames play on his
statuesque white garments,
his thin translucent hands
are raised toward the sky, towards that
which with trembling life
fills worlds
and ignites eternity.
And now resound
Until now unheard words:
O dear God,
great sower!
O dear God,
great nurturer!
And the old one, by sacred feelings
enraptured, pronounces ever more clearly
the newly born words
of a new hymn for the Ages,
as if into him flowed and through him
beamed celestial wisdom.
And from the old one far and wide
glide waves of quiet
approval
murmuring—announcing.
And all lips repeat
after the ancient one transformed
by the mysterious words.
And the unstoppable wave
rolls above the kneeling
sea of mortals—above the
throng pressed to the earth:
O dear God,
great sower!
O dear God,
great nurturer!
