PSALM XII
The fog is only
the breathing of the earth
in the most explicit moment
of the night;
a music soft and archaic
comes to you
from God knows where
by way of remembrance;
the season passes on,
its countenance covered
with time’s fleeting veil;
you see no progress on the road;
still, something sublime
murmurs next to your soul
and revives forgotten melancholies;
cautiously, within you
an emotion retreats
and then you
resume your journey;
you travel in deep thought
without words
without gesticulations
without even perceiving
what your own heart
is admonishing;
the wind blows by
scowling, out of tune, stubborn
always following its custom;
the night carries a fusion
of blind paradoxes,
but the light shines
in the darkness like a thread,
for God’s footsteps
have not been effaced from the road.
