Jorgora, a Poem

As translated by Garick Hellos of Owen.
(presented without annotation)

Who was, indeed, the greatest sleeper?
And Who was a mason and a craftsman
And a scholar? That none went deeper
Than he who built Jorgora.

Such a grand and majestic undertaking,
That king or wizard could commission.
Between the bounds of dreams and waking
That he did build Jorgora.

Imbibing Shuul, and lain on straw,
Some northern elf or mighty dreamer
Closed his eyes, and there he saw
The grounds around Jorgora.

As the evening sunlight died,
He dreamed of a forbidden act
That no great dreamer yet had tried,
His thoughts upon Jorgora.

The somnambulistic artisan raised
His hands, issued forth command.
The workers’ dancing torch fires blazed
Round what would be Jorgora.

Trenches dug and trenches filled,
The stones in place, the towers high,
Thought he might a palace build,
The palace of Jorgora!

The sun rode burning in one world,
Though time stood still for fools,
The dreamer’s banners were unfurled
On the walls of grand Jorgora.

A hunger fell upon the men,
Who’d labored through the dream,
And then nightmare settled in,
A Barrow was Jorgora!

All there and, with a sick and dying sound,
The great halls and the courts did sink,
Consumed by the grassy fields around
The tomb that was Jorgora.

He could not awaken from his dream,
Nor those he’d found to help him.
From his bed there was no scream
From he who dreamed Jorgora.

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