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Three Advents
The Hyacinth Review
The Hyacinth Review

Three Advents

by
December 1, 2022
Painting of a pig in a pen
Portrait Of Pig, Jamie Wyeth, 1970

Ariane Dudych is a literary translator and graduate student from…

Let me be your everlasting light The sun when there is none I’m a shepherd for you and I’ll guide you through Let me be your everlasting light – When the meaning’s gone There is clarity And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me
I- The First O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae et sol justitiae : veni et illumina sedentem in tenebris et umbra mortis. I saw, this morning, a brother killing a pig. Its yellow fat will boil soon, thick, pungent into the candles that every night are borne like gold to the chapel. So are we enlightened – at the price of blood. Every night, I will sing so that the dawn rises every morning to greet Him. eala, eala The chapel is cold. I shrink my hands into the folds of my robe, spread fumes of my breath into the smell of new wool, cast furtive glances at the dark hoods all around me. Agnus dei in this dark strange flock. eala, eala Suddenly, a feeling Ond mid hyra fiþrum frean ælmihtges onsyne wreað, ecan dryhtnes, ond ymb þeodenstol þringað georne and our voices soar, united, into the Lord’s darkness, Into the morning that the Lord weaves for us. Cutting through the cold like a knife, stealing my breath, prickling my eyes, is this what they call His love? As the sun slices through the chapel, dawn breaks the bread. Silence after song seems too holy, seems to hold so much I hold my breath until I reach my cell.
We- The Third Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus dominus deus sabaoth pleni sunt coeli et terrae gloria tuae I saw, this morning, red seep into my robes As the blade seeped into the pig’s throat. Red in my fingernails, clasped in fat As I dipped rope into boiling tallow. Tonight, we will carry candles into the chapel and sing with Him. eala, eala The chapel is stripped of sound, adorned with dripping light our bride in a waxy mantle. As gifts for our betrothal, I bring her the small joys of the day kept and cherished, life-pearls to adore, to string onto my song into a rosary heart-bound eala, eala And with this song the sun will rise eala, eala This is my worship.

Ariane Dudych is a literary translator and graduate student from Bordeaux, France. She writes in both English and French when she isn't busy baking, embroidering or playing music. Poetry is a vessel for all the emotions she can't keep in. Her work has appeared in Trinity JoLT, Roi Fainéant, Translittératures and Rec.Less. She loves the color red, the blues, and purple prose.

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