Classic Poem

As in the depths of an ancient cavern
lost in the recesses of the mountain,
silently, these centuries, a drop
of water falls;
so in my dark and solitary heart,
in the most hidden secret of my vitals,
I have heard, this long time past, a tear
slowly falling.
What dark cranny filters it to me?
From what mysterious springs does it distil?
To what fertile torrent is it faithless?
From what far source is it to me consigned?
Who knows? . . . When I was a child my tears
were the celestial dew that morning sheds;
when I was a youth they were a storm-cloud,
a tempest of passion and a rain of anguish.
Later, in a wintry eventide,
my tears were snowfall. . .
Now I weep no more . . . my life is arid
and my soul serene.
And yet . . . why do I feel the dropping thus,
tear after tear,
of some exhaustless spring of tenderness,
some indefatigable vein of grief?
Who knows! . . . It is not I, but those who were
my sad progenitors; it is my race;
the afflicted spirits,
the flagellated flesh;
age-long panting after the impossible,
mystic hopes,
sudden and unbridled melancholy,
ineffectual and savage anger.
In me at my begetting human suffering
left its marks,
its cries, its blasphemies, its supplications.
My heritage it is that weeps, my heritage,
in the depths of my soul.
The grief of my ancestors in my heart
collects, as in a chalice, tear by tear.
So I shall pass it on, when the day comes,
when from the seemly womb of the beloved,
kisses made incarnate, other beings,
transformations of my life, proceed.
I am at my desk. The afternoon
is kindly. My room is bright with sun.
Outside, in the garden, I hear the voices
of the children, their laughter and their singing.
And I think: unhappy creatures, perhaps
already, at this hour of merriment,
in your blithe hearts there seeps, unknown to you,
silent and tenacious, the ancient tear! . . .