(The epic poem-story continues.
I can't put too much at once.)
The Verse
Although the day-tide had barely spoken,
He, nonetheless, opened their precious token—
A mysterious book of poetry that had been sealed
With a waxen shield, it remaining concealed
For over ten centuries in the secret chamber
Of the library of the old monastery’s remainder.
The tome was written in some foreign language,
In verses of thirteen syllables, in four-line stanzas.
They opened it as one would a tender lover:
A small bottle was encased inside the front cover;
Some of its spirit had apparently escaped
When the volume had been undraped,
For they’d been captivated by the Persia fumes—
The perfume of ageless rhymes from ancient looms.
“It’s written in Persian,” she noted, looked,
Having handled many of the foreign books,
In her role as editor in the abbey’s nooks.
“It’s the library’s most valuable book,”
He said, having illuminated and unhooked
So many of the monastery’s great books.
“It was the only one I could save;
It’s the only book we’ll ever crave.”
They watched, amazed, as the book came to life,
Like a good husband in the presence of his wife.
The words of the Persian poems began
To move around the page, as over it they ran,
Sometimes briefly changing into English,
Entire verse-lines dancing, like a dervish.
Then, after settling, from the struggle
The words would yet again jump and juggle,
Hanging back, and then ever surging forth,
Darting around through the verses’ course
Within each stanza, to form a brighter source,
Lines which still stated the differing aspects
Of the original and pervading concepts.
‘Twas as this magical language transmogrification
Was attempting to preserve the entire relation
Of the original poetic scheme throughout—
The whole translation process so devout,
Including literal meaning, rhythm, rhyme,
Melody, syllables, meter, and time;
However, this didn’t seem to be workative,
And so it followed that something had to give,
And that ‘something’ was the ration
That was usually lost in the translation.
Finally, out of apparent desperation, uncaged,
The Persian verses jumped right off of the page
And splashed into the bottle of perfume,
Wherein they redistilled themselves, subsumed,
Leaping back out and on to the empty page,
Whereupon they recondensed, restaged,
And recomposed themselves for this new age,
Into Victorian style verse, into new quatrains
In which only the essence of the remains
Of the original concept of meaning was maintained.
The lines were now ten syllables, rather than thirteen,
Holding many related meanings heretofore unseen;
But the verses were still in groups of four per stanza,
And the correct lines still rhymed, as per lingua,
Although some of the rhyming schemes
Didn’t always have quite the same means.
Yes, some things unnecessary had been lost,
But something new had been added, not tossed—
Something somehow much better told,
Although still within the spirit of the old.
“What are you?” she asked of the book.
“Are you alive?” he asked, as he shook.
The book replied, “I am the book of life,
My pages rife with the antidotes of strife;
I am conscious dream, a living philosophy—
I live forever through my words, wholly.
“On my pages you will find all of man’s follies,
Joys, sorrows, wisdom, and all his jollies.
Read me and my ideas will come alive—
Demonstrating the happiest ways to survive!
“It is by experiencing my words
That you shall know them forwards.
“Yes, many arts may enrich human experience,
But they’re no substitutes for the living of it.”
“What is your name?”
He asked of the same.
“My name is a question only—
A mystery that you have to solve, namely,
‘What is the name of the Rose?’”
They looked for a minute at the tome,
Deeply inhaling its perfume.
( It was Persia-fume )
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3T4TP4j7JU
