Addressed to the Firebird

Arthur Gregor

but what is order, what is gain to me
who am bound to you, my bird of fire?
As time is piled on me like frost on leaves,
wherever I go, whatever I look at
it is our meeting I relive as in a haze:
Iam young, you are under a tree
of golden fruit; I have stumbled on
your garden by mistake, or so I think;
I catch you, hold you; clasped in a dance
I demand, you yield; I entreat, you elude
being both coldness of a swan
and passion of a bird aflame;
too much nearness and, my senses lost,

I let you go. Since then your gift- ~
the flaming feather I am left with,
your promise in my mind and heart-
has brought health where withering was,
success in skills I wanted most.
But what is order, what is gain to me
who am bound to you in no more than memory?
To have held you once should be enough,
but it is not: consumed by your flame-
a yearning beyond any worldly desire-
consuming me too slowly, too slowly,
my cruel bird of fire!