Talk of the Heart

On the mountainside, I found myself at the dim first light of dawn
meeting the processions of light — spilling down translucent, dancing...
Before me swayed flights of butterflies, preening drowsily,
printing their kisses on the mouths of the flowers,
rolling upon the leaves their fluttering, painted wings
and wiping them in the beads of glistening dew.
It is spring!!
The earth is at a wedding: perfumed, elegant,
proud of her silken gown —
her own hands embroidered it with a thousand colors, and brocaded it with a thousand shades...
And the flocks of nightingales and goldfinches all sing out in the flood of universal joy.
What ails my brother man, that he alone is glum and grieving,
heaping upon his heart armfuls of black tales?
What great care has settled upon his breast,
that he turns away from the processions of roses,
and denies himself the breath of perfume and the savor of the fresh melody?

What philosophy of life have the small birds grasped,
to which man is blind??