Make your pain into a harp. <br />Become a nightingale, <br />become a flower. <br />When bitter years arrive, <br />make your pain into a harp <br />and sing the one song. <br /> <br />Don't bind your wound <br />but with the branches of the rose. <br />I give you wanton myrrh <br />- for balm - and opium. <br />Don't bind your wound, <br />your purple blood. <br /> <br />Tell the gods to 'let me die!' <br />but hold on to the glass. <br />Buck against your days when <br />there's a festival for you. <br />Tell the gods to 'let me die!' <br />but say it with a laugh. <br /> <br />Make your pain into a harp. <br />Refresh your lips <br />at the lips of your wound. <br />One dawn, one evening, <br />make your pain into a harp <br />and laugh, and die.<br /><br />Kostas Karyotakis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nobility-3/
