Tomorrow Triumphant

WINGS OF THE SONG
The pollen
spreads its wings
in the fields and sings
Lifted
on high
by man’s hand,
the rock
sings,
Whistling, the mason,
director of the wind,
constructs a building.
The boy
learns
the word dove
and places it
lovingly
in the astrology
of his sweet songs

The blue pupil
of the workers
sings,
their strongest emotion
lives
in the prophetic smile
of triumph
in the unyielding
certainty
that their hands
are building
the broadest victory
of their people.

The dawn
laughs with joy
in the roadways;
the farmers
spill the vital storm
of the seed,
in whose brilliant
lightning
lays the deepest
justification of joy.

Everything turns to song
in this part of Germany.

  • trans. by Magaly Fernandez

& Tina Alvarez Robles