Praising, that's it! He was called to praise and emerged from the silence of a stone like an ore. O his heart – a temporary press for man's everlasting wine.
Nor does his voice grow choked with dust once it is seized by the god-like example.
All becomes vineyard, all becomes juice in his southern land, so ripe and sensual.
Even from tombs where kings have decayed nothing gives the lie to his praising.
Nor can the gods cause any shadow to fall.
He is the one, he is the constant herald who – even far through the doors of the dead – holds a bowl of fruit, ripe for the praising.