Joakim Bergen

Hyperion

Must you walk up on so high,

Hyperion, fatherly titan? Up

There, in wuthering heights,

Which leave me, a mere mortal,

Breathless and hopelessly blind?

Oh, to catch a glimpse of your

Cape, honey-gold, and the sight

Of your waving gilded hair! You

Carry on your godly duties, holy

Son of the Sun, as you\'ve for

Millenia. Dost thou tire, Sun-Son?

Doth thine fire ever wane? And

Your love for Man, ever-burning;

Will it, extinguished, leave us

In eternal night? Father! Of ages

Ancient I have learned, of olden

Ways have I heard in song and

Prose; the golden Athens, brave

Sparta and the Olympus, godly

Mountain, Sun-kissed kingdom

Of Divinity! Yet, oft we forget

Our forefathers\' glory and woe;

In ignorance we repeat misdeeds

Foretold by history, thinking

Ourselves better, greater, wiser.

What fools we are, to forsake

Your guiding hand, Holy Father!

And the Spirit, which once walked

Among us, all-animating, heavenly

Vigour; dead! No more doth forests

Echo life, no more do seas foam with

Love; and the sky, holy ground of gods,

Shakes no more in thunderous roars!

Oh Life, son of Love; your flowers

Wilt. Shall I fashion a funerary garland

Out of these roses, last kisses of Heaven?

Hyperion! The day bleeds black, the night

Envelops us; forever dead, forever sad.