King Oedipus, Op. 28

King Oedipus! Here's a grave so desolate,
That it befits no mourning song, and no lament
Can give it peace. Why then, do you wear that sword
In its leather sheath? Would you not rather grab the hilt,
And turn the blade. Have those eyes yet dried of tears;
Did you not hear, that gods themselves would prefer
You carve them out; really, they would rather
Not see you weeping, so that yours be the tearless face,
And guilty; and a broken container for a heart.
Why are you so young; should you not be old and spent?

King Oedipus, overcome with grief lingered and stayed,
Where his blood; his love, below the ground decayed,
Wept for his fate, for loss; under the ascending day.
His youth hid its sight; there was an old and wrinkled man,
Whose broken visage many a stream of tears did span,
And behind him, his stately hands were limply crossed.
Lines of anguish scoured his features; a grim pose
Its sorrowful and strained shade over him did impose,
And behind where he faced his love's carved tomb,
A pair of Theba's finest stood, like a host of rocks in gloom.

King Oedipus! Dam not your well of tears,
Neither wrangle your hands; form your gripped fists
And grasp your pierced heart. Howl and shiver
Like a young wolf deep in winter's night.
Be not so fearful of sorrow's might, embrace it
Like you once did your lover, paint your heart blue,
And think not of past but of future, for she will not leave you,
And neither will you her, so keep not your voice
calm; retain no posture, confront not your laments,
For that's no victory to be won, and no loss to be lost.

And he wept; long drenched braids of tears
He could not exhaust, and crestfallen he hid his years,
Asking of what nefarious cause had he so offended,
And why did his lament bring not day of rain nor moon,
But the height of the sun and the callous noon?
For why to born at all, if one was born to lose,
And his was the sin, that no deed could excuse?
And oft given answer there was; silence struck like a spear,
And like mists disperse over a lake, his mind cleared.

King Oedipus! There's beauty in pleasure and beauty in light,
Yet also beauty in sorrow, and beauty in pain,
And greatest beauty is only for gods, for man
cannot bear it. Abandon your mourning song! No guilty face
Stands to accuse, and no formless shade inhabits that grave.
Take back all your broken forms, and accept them
As they accept you: wounded, bleeding, rent whole.
King Oedipus! There's beauty in pleasure and beauty in sorrow,
So forget the old song; wipe your anxious face
Of the struggle; mourn when mourning is due.

Here then stands the king, his eyes raised from the ground,
His fixture pierces neither sight nor sound;
His hands loose and lax, crossed behind his back,
Eyes gaze forward and in them the melancholy strain,
Of widows; of tragic heroes, he willfully attains.
Behold! Here's a form, which all the worlds' might did oppose,
And felled; yet it broke not, and from dust arose.
A sight no hero, no grunt could deny, neither the Theban host,
But to smile in sorrowful manner, a slight coy smile,
And stay after the king is gone, before the graves for a while.