PROMETHEUS

O human body, temple of Beauty,
Poor pagan temple,
The lamp of the soul was without oil.
Was lifeless.
Dawn-light has left the temple;
It has fallen into dark ruin.
The gods have lost their followers,
Have fled like drifting shadows,
Have fled to hide them, weeping,
Behind the scriptural fig-trees.
Thither they are pursued
By wavering shapes of victims.
Dim, far-away,
Odysseus passes,
Wailing for wrath and sorrow.
Odysseus, bow slung on shoulder,
The bow of his misdeeds.
A voice unknown
Speaks with a benign music:
«Odysseus, man of might,
Whose gaze was fixed so high,
Whose arrow was loosed
Against the very heavens
That brood over all,
If again you aim at the sky,
Take care to tip the arrow with your soul
Securely caught,
With your own soul of grief:
Then with determined will
Send it flying into the sky».