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Paracelsus (the magician)

at the sign of the caduceus
his hand was hurling wind to the horizon
and the winged pollen
was scattering blood to the mouths of the world
 
you, my noble companion
you were coming from the lands of the salt
from the North-Est
you were coming from the lands of the wild man
and you were singing carefree
the coolness of the fields
while the Saracen corn
was simmering thirst on the lips of the mountains
 
oarsmen were rowing into the shadow
were rowing in silence
towards the land of one thousand towers
and oars were cutting deep inroads of fear
 
you knew that world of lands away
you knew the navigation, the dolphins, the blue ravines
the shallow waters of hearts without enchantment
and you knew
you knew that the red wind could awaken
and that the spirits were listening the silence
on the right on the left, to the North to the South
they were rock, trail, dawn
the shaking wave
its thundering strength
 
twelve were the oarsmen
twelve were the fixed gazes on that hand of yours
and while hope was springing from the waters
the lands not yet visible
were donating rain to the black angel