It is the action of the winnower, when he
Shovels the wheat and casts it up into the clear air
And swings it across the threshing floor.
The chaff falls to his feet, but
Finally the grain appears.
It’s not bad if some of it gets lost,
Or if the sounds of his living speech fade away.
For the work of the gods resembles our own:
The Highest doesn’t want it all done at once.
As mineshafts yield iron, and Etna its glowing resins,
Similarly I’d gain the treasure
Of making a portrait of him to show
What the Christ was like.
But if somebody pushed himself on
Along the road and, speaking sadly,
Fell upon me defenceless, and surprised me by saying
Only a base person would make an image of the god....
Once I saw the lord of heaven visibly angered,
Not because I wanted to become something different,
But because I wanted to learn something more.
The lords are kind, but as long as they reign
They hate falsehood most, when humans become
Inhuman. For not the lords, but undying Fate *
It is that rules, and their work changes
On its own and quickly reaches its conclusion.
As the heavenly triumphal procession ascends higher,
Then the joyful Son of the Highest
Is named after the sun by the strong.
Continues German text Home All poems
* In this instance Hölderlin seems to think of Fate not as a personification left from Antiquity, but as the master algorithm running the universe, an undecipherable script for both humans and gods, a sort of theory of everything.
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