Once, when returning from far Transylvania

Through mountain forests, rocks, and Carpathian ridges,

Halting by a ford at the close of day

(My companions had sent me ahead to look

For passage), I let my horse graze

And out of the saddlebag took the Holy Scripture;

The light was so gracious, murmur of streams so sweet,

That reading Paul’s epistles, and seeing the first star,

I was soon lulled into a profound sleep.

A young man in ornate Greek raiment

Touched my arm and I heard his voice:

‘Your time, O mortals, hastens by like water,

I have descended and known its absyss.

It was I, whom cruel Paul chastised in Corinth

For having stolen my father’s wife,

And by his order I was to be excluded

From the table at which we shared our meals.

Since then I have not been in gatherings of the saints,

And for many years I was led by the sinful love

Of a poor plaything given to temptation,

And so we doomed ourselves to eternal ruin.

But my Lord and my God, whom I knew not,

Tore me from the ashes with his lightning,

In his eyes your truths count for nothing,

His mercy saves all living flesh.’

Awake under a huge starry sky,

Having received help unhoped for,

Absolved of care about our platry life,

I wiped my eyes wet with tears.

No, I have never been to Transylvania.

I have never brought messages from there to my church.

But I could have.

This is an exercise in style.

The pluperfect tense

Of countries imperfective.