Ángelos Sikelianós, Greek Supper for the Dead

I spoke,
and whether or not they had well understood
all I had sought, they sipped of the wine,
and I, the last of all,
drank to the last drop also, like the priest
who drains the holy chalice in the Inner Sanctum;
and then together as one we softly turned our steps
– the candles one by one had guttered out –
toward the wide-open windows, beyond which lay
the black enstarred vast ocean of night
that on its pulse upheld us in our silence.

And if no one within that darkness spoke,
from deep within us the same thought and vow
rose upward toward the vast gloom and the stars:
“Hearken, divine protector, O Dionysos-Hades,
restrain our hearts now with the brusque black wine
of your deep pain, guard them and strengthen them
and keep them still untouched until that hour
when suddenly your cry, louder than roar
of earthquake, shall rouse up living and dead
together with us at once to the divine onslaught!”