He sings his way up to being,
quietly, with unhurried breath,
as though words were a blossomed staircase
leading to a perfect sky
where the kind-eyed gods themselves
with slow, sinuous movements,
and ancient, immaculate hands
would greet him kindly: "Friend!"
As though the net to catch human souls
was masterfully spun of poetry,
of nothing but the sound of words,
not even the sense, the sound...
Where are the moonlit woods
that stood up darkly and strictly
in the soft, thick mist of his longing,
now that he has seen Eurydice vanish
back into the silent earth?