His name will be John ( by Hoddion)

His name will be John.
Where does it come from,
this voice – from the silence
in the hymning desert?
The father’s blood
will dry up
parching
will not turn cold
between the temple and the altar.
Escorting Angel
takes the babe
by his hand
Frost on the burning sand
keeping the night warm

‘His name will be John’.
Eat your honey
After you’ve broken the thorn.
Eat your barberries
if your mouth is parched.
Wait! Wait until you hear
the Voice.
Your subtle figure in your raiment of camel's hair
is hugged by a leathern girdle
and your life
is unapproachable
to generations of vipers.

You will stay silent
like a river
for thirty years
and
nine scores of days
till
the Nazarene
will walk
at liberty.

Till that day, –
O the Friend of the Bridegroom! –
Walk along the dry riverbeds.
The Sun of Righteousness
hasn’t risen yet
the moon hasn’t gone dim yet…
No thunderstorm, yet no remembrance of silence.
Drink your cup, oh drink…

6-7.7.09 Moscow

(trans. by Olga and Robert Jarman)