The Child 10

10
A ray of morning sun strikes aslant at the door.
The assembled crowd feel in their blood the primaeval chant of creation:
  ‘Mother, open the gate!
The gate opens.
The mother is seated on a straw bed with the babe on her lap, Like the dawn
  with the morning star.
The sun’s ray that was waiting at the door outside falls on the head of the
  child.
The poet strikes his lute and sings out: ‘Victory to Man, the new-born, the
  ever-living.’
They kneel down, the king and the beggar, the saint and the sinner, the wise
  and the fool, and cry: ‘Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.’
The old man from the East murmurs to himself: ‘I have seen!’