Down the cliffs
The sea recedes, wakeful, silent.
The chalk hides
Beneath the crisp blades of grass.
The sun beats
The world with its wings of warm air
Tosses rose petals
Into the magical rabbit holes.
Your heart looks
Into this world as into a crazy mirror,
Cool and withdrawn,
Yet on the verge of a revelation;
Then someone utters
Suddenly from the sepulchre of your soul:
"This is you
And not you, this mirror lies and tells the truth."
His voice echoes:
"Among the pretty masks there is a face --
It's the stuff
Of dreams good and bad, of archetypes and instincts.
It is yours
And not yours, it's a tormenting, mocking mirror,
An image
More real than the real thing you thought you knew."
His voice booms:
"You have taught yourself many kinds of surrender --
To apathy
And love, to your dormant strength and your incessant weakness.
Yet deep within
Many more still wait to be uncovered.
Choose your right pace
Lest you should learn them all too soon and perish."
His voice sings:
"Up in the grey Sussex sky above the angry sea
Your other self
Manifests as the hot sun drawing tears from your eyes.
Let it blind you.
Let those tears and those words freely flow.
Say your prayers
To this universe of delightful gifts,
To the grass
Whispering the words of calm into your ears,
To the trees
Rejoicing with you at the utmost wonders,
To the waves
Chanting the words of power from their age-old spell book,
To your heart
Making good on its promise when you have long ago given up."
O gloriosa
Santa Lucia, che alla professione della fede,
Associasti
La gloria del martirio, ottienici
Di professare
Apertamente le verita del Vangelo
E di camminare
Con fedelta secondo gli insegnamenti
Del Salvatore.