Along the chasmís edge, upon the precipiceís brink I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying. Iím somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink... Iím gripped with mortal ecstasy: Iím dying, oh, Iím dying! Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run! Pay no heed to the lashís taut thong. The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones... Iíve not lived out my life, I canít finish my song. Iíll water my horses, Iíll sing some more verses - Yet a moment Iíll stand on the brink ere I sink. Iíll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me, At a gallop through the morning snow my sleighís drawn helter-skelter. Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly, And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter. Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run! You donít serve the lash or the thong. The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones... Iíve not lived out my life, I canít finish my song. Iíll water my horses, Iíll sing some more verses - Yet a moment Iíll stand on the brink ere I sink. Itís all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow. But why then should the angelsí voices sound so harsh and hoarse? Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow, Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course? Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run! I implore you, donít gallop headlong! The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones... Iíve not lived out my life, yet Iíd finish my song. Iíll water my horses, Iíll sing some more verses - Yet a moment Iíll stand on the brink ere I sink.
© Kathryn Hamilton. Translation, 1988