While a girl, when dining I often had a vision.
I thought I was the dove of Argo that passed
through Sympligades after it immobilised them.
As a teenager, I saw the Archangel and the saints
calling me on duty to set my homeland free.
I knew my wounds would be of purple colour,
like the Charles’ purple uniform at his coronation.
Down the walls of Paris, I heard the First Voice:
Forget the wound, here comes the marvel.
Captured in Compiègne, I heard the Second Voice:
Love your enemy, offer him your water to drink.
Condemned in Rouen, I heard the Third Voice:
‘They will descent you in fire, you’ll ascent on highs.’
Ι’m consumed; not for saving kings and successors,
but for France; I’ll fetch for her the Golden Fleece,
the symbol that Ifighenia looks after for me at Kolhida.
In fire I pray for my candle to last,
as a cypress of homeland that points to sky,
with roots in the deepest fire and divine coolness.
© JosephJosephides
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Strong, evocative, and true to the spirit of the Saint. '...In fire I pray for my candle/to last, /as a homeland cypress I point to the sky, '