To Thrace I have come,
not on account of Rome.
To Thrace I have come,
not on account of Latin fes­ti­vals.
To Thrace I have come,
not on account of pom­pous expanses.
To Thrace I have come
for some­thing qui­ve­ring, invi­ting,
that has never exis­ted in the senses and in rea­son before.
To Thrace I have come
On account of one wild spring.
I thought per­haps the one I seek
is still here,
the one simi­lar to me,
the one I have post­po­ned for too long
as just before death when the rings are remo­ved in a man­ner
                                                                 slow and solemn    
or when with royal deli­be­ra­tion earth­ly vest­ments
                                                           are set aside.

And thus sear­ching for ano­ther nature
from a form far off, from a form with height, from a form with
to merge with me,
I have found the wil­der­ness and its heart –
tribes, fire, rites unk­nown to the eye, ancient sacri­fices.

I am Roman. I, too, know sacri­fice – visible.
But this other, the one I seek
is wai­ting for me beyond the spheres, the uni­verse and the gods known to me,
is wai­ting for this Thracian spring to burn my last car­nal desire,
is wai­ting until the last garment of my old rea­son is scat­te­red as ashes,
is wai­ting for me to be pure enough,
to receive an infi­nite, invi­sible nature through His eyes
and the cells of a sys­tem exhaus­ted in visi­bi­li­ty
to pass on to mil­lions of but­ter­flies
and then to flow into a sea youn­ger than time.