Classic Poem

The Eagle has moved down to the foot of the mountain.
Seethe then, mountain peaks, and rage!
Your wound's scream, let it ring
throughout the world like crack of fire!
Fling your pride like a bloodied limb
at the feet of the foundering days

Peaks, gather up the Eagle's remains
and cast them at the chest of Time.
No longer does he brush the eyelids of the stars
proudly with his tousled feathers.
He has abandoned his nest, distraught,
his eyes moist with last farewell.
He has left behind him the cortege of clouds
that billowed down from their enchanted spheres
to enfold him in a dewy, dazzling kiss …

Now he has come down to the foot of the mountain,
has folded his wings on submerged ambitions.
Whole flocks once raced each other to flee
in fear of his strength,
but now you need not fly away, bird of the valley.
If you should know him in his present state
you would not fly away.
Weakness has pulled out his claws,
the storms of Fate have mangled his wings;
and that solemn wonder of his face
is but a vestige of a distant past …

Squirming with hunger, the Eagle perches
on a piece of carcass in the sand;
small and scrawny birds are pushing at it
with their stubby wings and tender claws …
But now, a tremor of mad pride sweeps over his body!
He shudders as though storm-tossed, and flies,
drags his crumbling bones upward
on the dusty horizon.
When he reaches the realm of dusky space
he squawks out a mighty shriek
and drops, dead, onto a lofty summit
into his old abandoned nest.

Eagle, will I ever return as you did
or has the mountain foot deadened my senses?