Prelude
(…)
I.
Who plays the shepherd’s pipe
in the light of early dawn
too godlike to describe
high above all we’ve known?
Who keeps the secret password
The melody’s hidden text?
Who plays for his own herd
For animals in their nest?
Who is the caring shepherd
guiding his flock up the hill
who brings them to their pasture
playing to keep them still?
Who walks among the meadows
As summer heat weighs low
And sleep in the farmhands’ rows
On earthly straw?
II.
Apollo lives in a Thessalian barn
No laurel wreath is crowning his golden hair
he’s exiled from Olympus pantheon
Condemned to live as a farmhand a year
There is a god in a Thessalian barn
Among the servants he walks in disguise
At the end of the table, his spoon and bowl
With the cattle in the barn at night he lies.
No earthly goods for him to hold
In a shepherd’s cape a god disguised.
III.
The autumn fires are burning.
The sheep are gathered around
He treats with godlike learning
those whose wounds should be bound.
His true home is in the stories
his soul is the lyre and the song
But uncomplaining he carries
his earthly throng.
IV.
A blessing will follow
where gods are walking by
The cape of Apollo
may cover and lie
but the corn where he walks will grow high.
He plays for the cattle
which follow his lead
for the sun, for the shower
for the plough and the seed
where death will surrender its creed.
V.
We give our praise to our head and lord
The King of Thessaly
When he arises at first cock’s crow
He’s on a sacred site.
For among the farmhands’ din
And eating from their jars,
the Sun’s commander, Moon’s close kin
And comrade of the Stars.
VI.
(…)
VII.
Gods are still walking across this land.
One may be sitting at your right hand.
Don’t ever believe a god can die.
He’ll walk before you, but where is your eye?
No lyre has he, nor feet that’re purple shod.
It’s only through his actions that you know a god.
The rule is set and never is revised:
Is God on earth, he walks around disguised.
VIII.
Would sheep be peacefully
Grazing in early morning light
On earthly grassy meadow
If this was not gods’ site?
Would springtime bring its bounty
and bind its wreath so tight
On this the mortal mountain.
If this was not gods’ site?
IX.
(…)
Björn Thegeby's translations 