I Can Hear
I can hear someone following my footprints into the moon
And planting flower seeds into my footmarks,
A wise step − forget-me-nots larks,
A wrong step − a belladonna festoon.
I can hear someone following my footprints into the sun
And ensconcing bird eggs into my footmarks,
A wise step − turtle dove love sparks,
A wrong step − the chanticleer’s fun.
I can hear someone following my footprints into eternity
And sowing words into my footmarks,
A wise step − hefty quotation marks,
A wrong step − poeticity.
We ought to be born senescent,
We ought to be ushered into this world venerably sage,
Being able to choose our own destiny,
All-knowing of the lifepaths which diverge at the primordial crossroads
So that merely our wanderlust be deemed irresponsible.
Thereafter we ought to grow younger and younger, on our journey,
Reaching the gate of creation as vigorous grown-ups
Passing through it and entering love as adolescents,
So that we evolve into children when our offspring are born.
Anyway, they would be much older than ourselves by then,
They would teach us to speak, they would rock us to sleep,
So that we drop out of sight, steadily growing smaller and smaller,
A mere grape berry, a pea in the peapod, a grain of wheat…
The miracle crackles under my feet
Slenderly dressed in the tender frame
Of the wet boughs,
It bursts forth over my head
And drips within myself,
I can hear its distinct
And enigmatic voice.
It flows over the stones
It falls asleep in the wild strawberries
And ripens them in their slumber,
The fir cone serves as its palace,
The mole’s eyes embody its cradle,
Stands as a candle.
Both fruit and roots,
Butterflies and bees,
Both the evil and the good
In heaven and on earth,
And even myself,
Though having never been
From the paradise
I have been trying
English version by Gabriela PACHIA