(Ovid)
Nothing retains the shape of what it was,
And Nature, always making old thing new,
Proves nothing dies within the universe,
But takes another being in new forms.
What is called birth is change from what we were,
And death the shape of being left behind.
Though all things melt or grow from here to there,
Yet the same balance of the world remains.
* * *
“How many creatures walking on this earth
Have their first being in another form?
Yet one exists that is itself forever,
Reborn in ageless likeness through the years.
It is the bird Assyrians called the Phoenix,
Nor does he eat the common seeds and grasses,
But drinks the juice of rare, sweet-burning herbs.
When he has done 500 years of living
He winds his nest high up a swaying palm –
And delicate dainty claws prepare his bed
Of bark and spices, myrrh and cinnamon –
And dies while incense lifts his soul away.
Then from his breast – or so the legend runs –
A little Phoenix rises over him,
To live, they say, the next 500 years.
When he is old enough in hardihood,
He lifts his crib (which is his father’s tomb)
Midair above the tall palm wavering there
And journeys toward the city of the Sun,
Where in the Sun’s temple shines the Phoenix’ nest.”
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