Spring

Over the hills, flowers embrace, and the moist breeze takes them by the waist in a dance of rapture to the melodies of the forenoon...

On the slopes, flocks of sheep scattered in innocence upon hope, and the moan of a flute singing memory beneath the oak...

And in the valley, a baptized river goes its swaying way, glorifying the Creator with murmurings among the grasses, and a beating of the breast upon the rocks; and a wild dance at the feet of the abyss...

And in the sky, tufts of carded cotton, and a maiden awaiting the beloved's return...

In the open expanse, on the boughs, on the rims of the pools, in the meadows, flocks of birds have gathered—some straying off into space... some courting upon the branches, some playing on the water's brow, bathing, then wrapping themselves in sunbeams beside their mates...

And in the evening, on the path to a spring, a boy beside a girl, the two weaving hopes in the moonlight, mingling breaths sent up by breasts warmed by the fires of passion...

And among the pine trees, between the whisper of night and the pallor of the light, a bewildered poet sends his gaze far into the stillness, digging for an image that has slipped away from imagination, calling back a beloved phantom, sending out into the world the prayer of beauty, and burning incense before a maiden who draws away whenever he comes near, and yearns whenever he draws away...