Page 718 - Kosovo Metohija Heritage

SUPPeR ON THe BLaCKBiRD’S FieLD
All sit at table transparent
And see the stars in each others’ hearts
The crowned one breaks and shares out Their golden past
And they eat it
He pours into their white peony goblets Their ruby future
And they drink it
Across their knees under the table Their swords are growling quietly
In the platters on the table
Is reflected the evening sky
And in the sky the end of tomorrow’s battle
A blackbird flies down
On to the crowned one’s right hand And begins his song
THe BLaCKBiRD’S SONG
I the blackbird
Among birds the black-cowled
Fold and unfold my wings Perform the rites in my field
In my beak I transform
A dew-drop and a grain of earth into song
O battle tomorrow be fine That is to say be just
O verdant Queen grass Be victorious you alone
O victory make the Queen’s servants rejoice Who feed her with crimson milk
Make her star-servants rejoice also Who clothe her in living silver
I sing
And I burn one feather from my left pinion That my song may be accepted
THe BaTTLe ON THe BLaCKBiRD’S FieLD
Singing we ride over the field
To encounter the armoured dragons
Our most lovely wolf shepherd
His flowering staff in his hand
Flies through the air on his white steed
The crazed thirsty weapons
Savage each other alone in the field
From the mortally wounded iron
A river of our blood streams out
Flows upward and streams into the sun
The field stands up erect beneath us
We overtake the heavenly rider
And our betrothed stars
And together we fly through the blue
From below there follows The blackbird’s farewell song
THe CROWNeD ONe
OF THe BLaCKBiRD’S FieLD
On his hand he holds his severed head His bright shining benefaction
The sun’s vice-regent
In the all-pervading dark
He stands beatific on a cloud
Barefoot in a torn shirt
Girt with the tail of a vanquished dragon
In a goblet brimful of blood On his severed neck
The fragments of his sword become Morsels of bread
Holy mother Saturday Gives him second birth
He is alive in the crimson dew-drop
He dances in the burning circle of peonies He sings in the blackbird’s song on this field
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