Something

Something from the sadness of a requiem the branches are swinging all around fir cones; death, where are your pins? Something from the mildness of a lullaby the waves are moving the yachts are unfolding the masts the boatman, where is the North Star? Something from the melancholy of a great yearning embalms the bed clothes the coach has not arrived yet can you see the horses coming in the distance? Something from the joy of the first flight is tapping at the window blue butterflies among plum trees in blossom you little child, has the heaven opened? (Translated by Margaret Mioc)