Meridion - 3. Ode to a Silver Prince

Oda a un Príncipe Vitáceo

Susurran los árboles en su lengua sagrada,
de aquel quien nació del polvo espacial;
en el vientre de Andrómeda aquel se gestara,
su serenísima alteza de la estirpe astral.

Por virtud de los cuerpos celestes,
empujado a través de la áurea cavidad,
nace el príncipe de las mil dignas huestes,
hijo del tiempo y la intrínseca eternidad.

Adornado de madreperla, oro y marfil,
camina los jardines prohibidos de Io;
se postran los dioses ante el fino perfil,
y sonríe entonces petulante y sombrío.

El infante platino es la muerte de Apolo,
todo sonrisas y de porte imperial,
pero en su luna de Zeus está frío y solo;
¿quién será ahora su amor mercurial?

Por morder la prohibida fruta sanguina,
el príncipe níveo ha manchado su tez;
se cubre apenado con la flor purpurina;
ahoga cometas con su pura beodez.

La Madre se apiade de aquellos poetas,
que ojos posen en el rey alienígena;
tras sus labios las finas férreas saetas
inyectan la dulce sentencia toxígena.

¿Quién porta la seca corona de estera
para dar compañía al rey primavera?
¿Quién honra su mirada banal y certera?
Quien deje la vida para la muerte amar.

Ode to a Silver Prince

The trees whisper in their ancient tongue;
they speak of the one born amidst space dust,
who was formed in Andromeda's womb;
his royal highness of the astral lineage.

By grace and virtue of celestial bodies,
he is pushed through the golden cavity,
and so is born the prince of the thousand guests;
the son of time and eternity itself.

He dons gold and ivory and mother of pearl
as he strolls through the forbidden gardens of Io;
the gods bow before the sight of him,
and so he grins, somber and petulant.

The platinum prince is the death of Apollo,
with his smiles and imperial poise;
but he's all alone in his cold Jupiter moon;
who's to be now his mercurial love?

For taking a bite off the forbidden sanguine fruit,
the snow-white prince has stained his skin;
he covers himself with violets in shame,
and his unwitting charm drowns comets in the sky.

The Mother have mercy in the ill-fated poet
who set their eyes on the alien archon;
for behind his lips hide slender blades of iron,
that inject the irresistibly sweet, toxic substance.

Who will wear the crown of dried-up leaves
to stay by the spring king's side?
Who will honor his absent, banal gaze?
He who forgoes life to love death instead.