O my beautiful Night
it was you whom I created
first. In this delightful darkness
lies the essence of life
from which springs deep slumber,
from which the reflection of Dream
pours through the pores of clouds
and percolates through to a conscience.
Lying in the air is the spirit
of past souls’ desolate beauty,
and the wide-open sky
teases sleep in tickling night wind.
I walk into the starry wind,
embracing my creation. Night
caresses me with her shady spirit,
and the glowing orbs in the sky
brim over with fusing life
as they twinkle behind the obscure clouds.
O Night, your iridescent beauty I created
soothes my long-dead conscience
of stone. In your rich darkness
lies an extreme, strange beauty
that I can soar in my dreams
and touch each life’s day-slumber.
I watch my Night in her dark slumber,
and my thoughts are a tearing wind
through that darkness-death of my dreams,
where the intensity overcomes Life
itself, and it flees into the clouds
that pad the imagination of the Night.
The Night is what I created
and her thick impenetrable darkness
is that mystery of her opalescent beauty.
I bestowed upon her a ghostly spirit
that torches the red-mauve sky
and turns it into my flaming conscience.
The melancholy stirring in my conscience
rouses me from my surreptitious slumber
as I rise to watch the clouds
in the sky float like purple dreams.
The silent calling of Life
whistles in my ears, as the wind
whistles through the leaves. Night’s beauty—
which I conceived and finally created—
boils over in her frantic darkness
as she kisses the open sky.
O my seductive Night,
you have captured your creator’s spirit.
I have heard the songs of my spirit
which serenades my tired conscience
as both of them fall into their dreams.
I watch my creation give her beauty
to the world around me. O Night,
my child-daughter, whom I created,
you take me to that above-the-clouds
paradise in which my Life
is not mocked; paling beside your darkness
is the glorious light of the North Wind
which lulls shiphands into sea-slumber
under the carmine cover of the sky.
I spread night-wings to fly in the sky
and out of joy and gladness my spirit
sings melodies; these tunes enter Pan’s dreams
and even he cannot match their beauty:
for the bronze sceptre of Life
I have taken, and with it, created
my Night, who reigns above the clouds.
O the daughter of Life, thou, Night,
art the manifestation of a wind
that brims over from my conscience
which prevents me from slumber.
My own intangible darkness
is different from this (her) darkness
that I created, to roam that sky
which rules the cotton clouds.
From the deep wells of my conscience
I release a burning fire of wind
and my lover-daughter of Night
joins with that wind I created
and rises into the sky with a rarefied beauty
to watch over Mankind’s slumber.
A dream? is it only a dream?—
that the fulfilling of my spirit
will be that act to complete my life?
This my Night is a creation, a life
whom laughter and smiles are a darkness
wherein the existence of the dreary spirit
of sleepy thought is like a dream
in a giant’s violent sanguine-slumber.
O Night, whom I made with a beauty
unparalleled; the universe worships Night
as the nebulous conglomerates of star-clouds
are tossed turbulently by solar winds
of might. The white Styx in the violet sky
is the white gossamer thread binding my conscience
as it has been, as what God created.
O my tranquil Night I created
you first. I breathed hot life
into you, to awake you from slumber.
You are mine, you are my creation, O Night:
your all-encompassing beauty in darkness
weighs heavily on my nervous conscience.
I escape, or run or flee, into the clouds,
to see the piles of powdered beauty,
and I hear the exultation of Olympian spirits
chanting their refrains to the sky:
their voices lost in jet-winds
as ephemeral as dreams.
In my darkest desires I dream
of you, O Night, whom I created
and you who are refuge of lovers’ spirits
as they intertwine in celebrations of life.
The depths of my teeming conscience
cry out to you, —can you hear? —O Night
we pray thee, take us to the clouds
that we may finally slumber
in the moonlight-dark beauty.
Pray thee take from us this life
that we may rise to heaven’s sky
to play upon quasars’ wind.
And as if in Charybdis’ wind
tearing the foolish open dreams
there was an emptying of my conscience,
but I was suddenly charged with life
so that I fully saw the darkness
and that darkness was enveloping all slumber.
A shudder ran down my spine and my spirit
reeled from the sheer diamond beauty.
O my sombre Night whom I created,
fly! —fly! —to live Life as I live Night;
I blot out the carmine-azure sky
and hide, shamefaced, in the clouds.
My desire twirls around the soft clouds
as Night sends me aromas on the wind
and glimpses of immense horizons in dreams,
dreams whose overwhelming darkness
snap at me like hungry spirits
or as Scylla swallows the sailors’ sky.
I release into the world Mankind’s slumber
to relieve the creation’s burden on my conscience,
and so every and each busy life
succumbs to Nyx; and I created
Night to complete myself and the world’s beauty.
In amorous respect, then, I present the Night.
Poseidon’s hungry winds rip through the sky
as Euterpes sings of the beauty of Night’s spirit.
My conscience bids me draw the curtain-clouds
on Mankind’s turbulent dreams. And her peaceful slumber
yields me to the light of life at which darkness
recoils. It is I who created—first—the Night.