Scarecrow II The lords here honor me as a god Catullus. Poem XIX Oh Traveller, if you’re afraid of my anger, respect this humble roof of flags and rushes. Here, with his issue, is a strong grandfather, the master of the close and the clear spring. And it was he who planted in the middle my symbol carved out of a linden’s heart; he has no other gods, and so I stand alone over the orchard flourishing to please me. They are poor country people, and devoted. By them, the violets and the somber poppies adorn my pole, along with the green barley; and always, twice a year, the rough altar drinks from the old man’s sacred knife the dark blood of an indecent young goat. translated from José-Maria de Heredia
Posted on: Sun, 17 Nov 2013 19:45:20 +0000
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