The morning of love
Is precisely what elevates us
The height where we do not yet realise
That we are soaring,
Above dispassionate fogs,
Behind which a formless desire is curtained.
Your voice calls me, your voice –
I dreamed of you, as a bird dreams of the open skies,
Not knowing whether I would reach you.
Once in autumn I walked along the birch grove,
And heard cranes crying,
Like the cry of newborns in a birthing hospital –
The weep of a multitude of those
Who just entered this world –
Their thin voices merged into the one
Every so often, when the choir went silent,
A pale voice stood out,
But at once it carried away the others,
And everyone merged again,
And everyone sounded like a morning bliss –
The church bells –
That reached us both from the immaterial abyss.