TO OMAR KHAYYAM

 

Tonight the moon has Persian

highlights.

 

Silver chirimias woo it

in its path among the clouds

and the celestial gardens make vibrate

its meadow of stars, swollen.

 

Grabbed with both hands

to life’s clay cup

I arrive after the dregs

to your face of kind clay,

a little drunk already,

happily floating in the existence

pond.

 

Where do we come from

and where are we going to,

what do we care?

In downing in one gulp

life’s cup

(white wine’s day,

red wine’s night),

we only see the surly

bottom

face of death.

 

Of the mystery we are only allowed

to smell its bouquet

and to test its flavour

and to sail over its tongues of fire

mesmerized by joy.

 

No one living being

beyond ourselves

and what surrounds us.

In vain to try to lift

the carpet of phenomenons:

we can’t confuse any more

the dust of a house too often

visited by men

with the solar thunder of the answer

that engenders even our question

and dazzles us with its clarity

being, as we are, part

of what exists

and all seeing

wide-eyed.

 

Come on, then, that wine flows!;

and keep this place next to me

for my friend.

 

And, then, Omar, we only know

that time flies

and that we will be a long time

under,

united as brothers,

let’s drink!

 

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