Tomorrow Triumphant

I, who love poetry like no one
understand the sadness of a tree;
the sorrow of a poets, their vastness
condemned to small vessel;
their coming and going from dream to wakefulness;
their mad gallop over lands,
where star speak,
fire assault,
and life and death
are lovers of the cyclone and the swan;
I cannot hope to embrace
all poets,
hear how the blue grass
of poetry grows from each soul;
navigate the rivers
hidden in their hands;
hear how the wind falls
in the narrow pass
of their most bitter words;
be born from their  breasts
like a dark anonymous rose
and say to the timid: take
my arm, we will walk together.
And make them feel the splendor
of the most ample friendship
so their pain may be less;
their dying steps in the world.
And show to the sad
the beautiful waist of laughter
so their sadness
may be a soft loving lamp
and not a candle put out
when loneliness is lit.
And for the poets of vigorous swords
cultivate in their breasts
the biggest most beautiful rose
so they won’t pass through the world
with blind eye
and crippled tenderness
and will know how to love life
where it rises
With its flaming face.
And understand everyone
and say to them all: live,
because life
is the highest poetry.

  • trans. by Barbara Paschke