Friend of ages, keeper of legends, You alone among your kin Have guarded the age-old secret Of treasures and deeds from the eyes of men. Why has no leafy-crowned oak Been raised to mark your feat, And why does no flame—seal of election— Shine through the gloom above you? The eagle swoops down upon you From an immeasurable height, just as on all the rest, And the relentless plow shears away The last traces of every sign. Why do you slumber? With miraculous power, Let a dark-foliaged oak spring up! Shatter against the unyielding stone The relentless tooth of the cruel plow! — That is why, O humble wanderer, I remain forever silent here upon the steppe: Because I wish to keep my cherished treasure Hidden in my breast from everyone, for all time.
