Eurydice

A man has but one body,

like a single cell.
The soul is sick and tired
of its too solid shell,
with ears, mouth, eyes
the size of a nickel coin
and skin all scarred and diced,
spread over a skeleton.
Through cornea it wings
to a heavenly spring,
to ice-laden slings,
to a chariot birds bring.
It hears through the grating
of its living prison pen.
The fields’ and forests’ rattling,
the Seven Seas’ refrain.
Without a body a soul’s nude,
as a body’s nude without a shirt:
no thought’s forthcoming, no good,
no idea’s born and no word.
A question that has no answer:
whoever can come back
from the floor where no dancer
was ever to leave track?
 I dream of another soul,
in quite a different garb:
while shifting
between dole and hope,
it burns up, like alcohol, and goes away,
casts no shadow and just leaves
as mementoes the lilacs
smelling of meadow.
Run on, my child, do not lament
the fate of poor Eurydice,
just keep on driving to globes’ end.
Your copper hoop for all to see,
as long as answering to your step.
However slight might be a tone;
the earth sends signals gay and pep
to every energetic bone.
- Arseny Tarkovsky