22. studeni 2011 ob 13:21 | 35
The furthermost bird of this world sings.
The night is neat, straight and wide.
And the moon whispers:
To the ears of the flowers,
To the ears of the twigs.
In front of the stairs,
-within the abundance of a nightly breeze-
a torch in my hand,
The lanes is calling your steps!
For your eyes not be the ornament of darkness:
Wash your eyes,
Wear your shoes
Come until the moon’s obscured fingers warns!
Come until Time sits by your side!
Come until the night’s fragrance absorbs
the entire mass of your limbs!
I know –if you come-
there will be a wise
who will tell you then:
“The best instant in life
is the night you look into your eyes
and they are wet.
They are wet
from the incidence of love.”