Chapter 25 greek poet romanos

He is a poet.He sees for our eyes and hears for our ears.Our silent words hung on his lips, and his fingers touched things we couldn't feel. Countless singing birds flew out of his heart, some flying south and some flying north.The small flowers blooming all over the foot of the mountain also made him stop and watch on the way to heaven. I have often seen him stooping to caress the blades of grass in the field, and I hear him whisper in my heart: "Little green creature, in my kingdom you will be as dear to me as the oaks of Besan and the cedars of Lebanon." I am with you."

He loved all things beautiful, the timid faces of children, myrrh and frankincense from the South. He liked a pomegranate, or a glass of wine, kindly presented to him, whether by a stranger at an inn or by a wealthy host. He loves almond blossoms.I have seen him pick handfuls of almond blossoms and cover his face with the petals.He is willing to embrace all the flowers and trees in the world with love. He knows the mysteries of the sea and the sky.He speaks of pearls, but the pearl's luster is not earthly; he speaks of stars, but the stars shone beyond our night sky. He knows the mountains like a vulture, and the valleys like a mountain stream.In his silence there is the solitude of the desert, in his speech the fragrance of the garden.

Oh, he is a poet whose soul rests in an unattainable pavilion, whose songs are sung for us, but also for others, for people in foreign lands where life is always young and time is always dawn And sing. I used to consider myself a poet.But when I stood before him at Bethany, I understood how the player who plucks the monochord feels before the master of all the instruments; There are trees dancing in the wind. Since I know that my harp has only one string, and that my song neither records the memory of yesterday nor weaves the hope of tomorrow, I have bound my harp and I will be silent.But in the twilight I will turn my ear to the voice of the Most High of poets.