The Morning Skylark
My spirit bursts in an azure torrent,
all the veins of my blood run in my voice,
my blood gurgles in the silence like crickets in the bushes,
like the river that never considers the number of its drops,
descending like a splendor or like a drunken kiss toward the sea.
Above me the worlds buzz on festive crossroads,
violet, rose, white, and azure rivers
rolling among stringed instruments, and the atmosphere shines.
Wheatstalks quiver with the silvery echoes of the universe.
Struck dumb, I listen to the friendly message of God
who asks me from the heart of light with all the mouths
of His angels to answer Him whether I am happy,
who asks me with the golden flutes of the sunbeams,
and I answer Him with His own light, which overbrimming
makes blue the larklike stream of my spirit.
Like a star between the light of the sun and of love,
fluttering in the high tree of His window,
I peck at the morning light and answer Him by whistling like the birds, without words.