They Know Not Whose The Voice Is Which They Hark (Stormclouds Over The Caucasus)

Against the horizon stood a mountain great

In lightnings crowned as were the kings of yore;

Around its throne raged winds of might and hate

While on its back a stole of frost it bore,

And soared as if to wield the reins of fate

Just like those kings whose deeds live on in lore.

Towards this mount which men now Kazbek call

Moved foot the Three to tread its icy pall.

An olden temple raised by gods now dead

Lay solemnly atop the timeless stone.

Was this where the Three led their stumbling tread:

Where mournful winds sad hymns of frost intone.

The snowy path was stained with scarlet red

As climbed the men, blind-eyed for the sun shone,

All torn and ragged, with frost in brows and beard,

For answering the call they hath once heard.

“They know not whose the voice is which they hark;

Aware are not of where their steps will lead;

Yet they walk on along their path so dark,

Onwards for yielding to the call they heed.”

Thus sung the winds as up the shoulders stark

Of mountain Kazbek rose the mortal seed,

The chosen that, yet why the could not see,

Hath climbed a mount and sailed the virgin sea.

Ten times ten feet rose the gates of gold

And emerald which led towards the shrines

Where secrets older, more than death is old,

Forgotten lay where ice eternal shines,

Where winds cry melodies so grim and cold

And of souls damned the eternal sorrow whines.

Six days took it for the mortals to gain

The top forever scarred by chilling rain.

A mighty throne of gold stood in the hall

And sat on it an iron statue frowned

With scepter in one hand (so great and tall…),

With icy shining eyes, and forehead crowned.

And thus was written on the ancestral wall:

“One by the sun of savage forests browned,

One stained with blood from he who gave him life,

And one who left in tears his maiden wife.”

The sleeping king awakened from his sleep,

One hand removed the ice from his eyes chilled

(Which shone as rubies dark, so grim and deep)

And cried his voice “The prophecy’s fulfilled !”

For an eternal while forgot to weep

The winds, as the ancient walls did shake and thrilled:

Astonished stood the world before the rage

Of the triumphant king of the new age.

There was, after, a fire great and bright,

Which swallowed savagely the olden stones

And crowned with flames the awful, dreadful might

Of He who sends the plague and breaks the bones.

And finally comes forward from the light

An old white man, and chants of bane intones

While holding in his hands the burned remains

Of the first setting sail to cross the mains.