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Come under the shadow of this gray rock -
Come under the shadow of this gray rock - Come in under the shadow of this gray rock, And I will show you something different from either Your shadow sprawling over the sand at daybreak, or Your shadow leaping behind the fire against the red rock: I will show you his bloody cloth and limbs And the gray shadow on his lips.
He walked once between the sea and the high cliffs When the wind made him aware of his limbs smoothly passing each other And of his arms crossed over his breast. When he walked over the meadows He was stifled and soothed by his own rhythm. By the river His eyes were aware of the pointed corners of his eyes And his hands aware of the pointed tips of his fingers.
Struck down by such knowledge He could not live men’s ways, but became a dancer before God. If he walked in city streets He seemed to tread on faces, convulsive thighs and knees. So he came out under the rock.
First he was sure that he had been a tree, Twisting its branches among each other And tangling its roots among each other.
Then he knew that he had been a fish With slippery white belly held tight in his own fingers, Writhing in his own clutch, his ancient beauty Caught fast in the pink tips of his new beauty.
Then he had been a young girl Caught in the woods by a drunken old man Knowing at the end the taste of his own whiteness, The horror of his own smoothness, And he felt drunken and old.
So he became a dancer to God, Because his flesh was in love with the burning arrows He danced on the hot sand Until the arrows came. As he embraced them his white skin surrendered itself to the redness of blood, and satisfied him. Now he is green, dry and stained With the shadow in his mouth.
Come under the shadow of this gray rock - Come in under the shadow of this gray rock, And I will show you something different from either Your shadow sprawling over the sand at daybreak, or Your shadow leaping behind the fire against the red rock: I will show you his bloody cloth and limbs And the gray shadow on his lips.
He walked once between the sea and the high cliffs When the wind made him aware of his limbs smoothly passing each other And of his arms crossed over his breast. When he walked over the meadows He was stifled and soothed by his own rhythm. By the river His eyes were aware of the pointed corners of his eyes And his hands aware of the pointed tips of his fingers.
Struck down by such knowledge He could not live men’s ways, but became a dancer before God. If he walked in city streets He seemed to tread on faces, convulsive thighs and knees. So he came out under the rock.
First he was sure that he had been a tree, Twisting its branches among each other And tangling its roots among each other.
Then he knew that he had been a fish With slippery white belly held tight in his own fingers, Writhing in his own clutch, his ancient beauty Caught fast in the pink tips of his new beauty.
Then he had been a young girl Caught in the woods by a drunken old man Knowing at the end the taste of his own whiteness, The horror of his own smoothness, And he felt drunken and old.
So he became a dancer to God, Because his flesh was in love with the burning arrows He danced on the hot sand Until the arrows came. As he embraced them his white skin surrendered itself to the redness of blood, and satisfied him. Now he is green, dry and stained With the shadow in his mouth.