Orphic dream

ORPHIC DREAM

This remains: just an echo from the crypts of the past.
It settles like salt and mist in the crevices of cliffs.

Thyme smoke, wormwood, and sea-breath dust
haven’t eaten my eye sockets, though long settled in my throat.

Again, the sun strikes through my hair:
I see haze through red pine needles...

In the ashes –  the shaman’s locks
and fingers with a crooked pipe.

He snorts, smokes, hisses, spins, howls.
After dancing, he turned –  curled into a Siberian cat.

He sleeps, blinks from smoke, breathes like smoky ash.
Don’t touch him with palm or paw –  he’s so alike.

Through his whiskers, he lisps... Insanely calm and bright.
Just blow on him –  and the fiery rooster is good.

(...)

Return to the body: sleeping flesh –  just a burden.
Elbow, ear, wrist... like in thistles –  a palm.

Leaving, I glanced back at the dream: in it, that time returned to me.
In it, I saw you, "Blowing the Morning Fire."