Il Male Oscuro

FORTRESS OF THE NIGHT

There is a dirt patch leading in a wood,
Where silence rules unquenched, along with shade,
Which on that forestfalls alike a hood,
But then retires nearby a moonlit glade:
Whereon the disk of Selen sends its beams
That, rather than enlight, the world they dim.

Cross that glade, and bathe again in dark,
The path goes on for a mile or two;
Then in the blackness thou should see a spark:
Nobody hath ever seen it, no one knew!
The spark is like a lighthouse in your sight:
It leads to the fortress of the night.

A fountain in the garden calls its splash
And near its circling figure sits a bench:
Stillness and rush, in their eternal clash!
But water serves its duty, that’s to quench
The wanderer, that wants its thirst to cease,
And came out from the gloom to find some peace.

Around the fountain, a silent garden stands
The plants grow strong, but dimm’d by the moonrays.
Who grew them? Were they mortal hands?
Who knows the secret and mysterious ways
Of Nature, that over this world spans
In ways that still remain unknown to man.

The wind that blows, with force that creepers shakes,
Brings gusts of eternity as well
As breeze, that speaks for old times’ sake,
And passed through many eras, now here tells
About the vikings’ druids, and their bid
For longest life by yelling “For All Tid”.

Among the garden runs a little stream:
among the rocks it flows, with splashing sound.
The echoes of its journey, like a dream,
Fill air with mist, beyond the spirit’s bounds,
Reminding that life flows, day by day,
And what Heraclitus told: “Panta Rei”.

From the fountain, the cypresses guard a path
That leads to a glade, which is the host
Of a grim statue that resembles death:
But – Fear not! – Not all hope is lost.
This is not death, so contain your fright:
It’s only a sculpture of the night.

Approach to the wicket made of wood:
See: it’s open! For nobody’s hand
Hath ever open’d it to alter the mood
Of that lone building, that watches a strand
Of shingle, caress’d by a dark-blue sea
To which the fishermen address’d their pleas.

The doors that keep secret the unknown:
Disclose their embrace, and stride ahead,
Pass through the curtains of the hall
And breathe deep the peace that balms your head.
Forget the worries, the pain, all the strife
And everything that till now ruin’d your life.

The atmosphere is still, no voice nor sound;
All the rooms are cloaked in dark-blue.
The only noise, thine footsteps on ye ground.
The feeling that only this is true
(And the whole world, a grim trick of the mind)
Overwhelms your soul, with ties that bind.

Look on the walls, above the dusty shelves
The tomes of ancient times as stone stand still:
The knowledge contain’d inside themselves
Is offered to the struggle of your will.
The story of the fortress and its land
Is inscribed there for thee to understand.

The fortress is a maze of doors and rooms
And corridors and hallways cloaked in dark;
But there is something hindering the gloom
Which partially retires, no more stark:
The full moon, through the many windows gazes
And its rays light your journey with their blaze.

Up, up the stairs now climb, like in a rush
Aiming to the top of the chateau.
Running, like if roof’s about to crush:
Open the little trapdoor, and then go
Through its opening: now you see the sky!
Sprinkled with stars, with blue clouds which pass by.

Finally, on the ramparts stand, and stare
To the landscape and the night around.
Rest thine legs, and fill your lungs with air
That from the east casts its gloom profound.
Lay here, and taste the serenity:
And bask in this piece of eternity.

Nathaniel Jack Dirkvel