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Oh, thou of the brightest of the heavens,
if thou knowst who you are,
What week in summer is your most beloved?
If thou see it as equitably as I,
Then this such is of most gracefulness.
But to know of the river of heaven
To flow faster than the wind blows,
Then surely you can comprehend
The vale of bereavement as much as I.
But in my heart,
Do I know of more beautiful images,
For whose love is it that goes?
When the eyes of those that love us close
And the path of the hurricane is nigh.
Tremble, tremble the mountains,
Let the highest of all adoration fall - love, like fire.
Lest you burn alive in love, let it be solidifiable -
To make you stronger, more endearing.
But my heart cried out,
Pulsated like the earthquake of winter.
Thus, must I now descend?
Why now, descendent, you close your heart,
But not your eyes?
As lovely as the light is, blink -
For bear your sight,
Let it not become only for you to see darkness instead of light.
When before I met just marvelous beings,
A messenger, a priest -
There stood in the streams of the most amiable and engaging
As lovely as is in the spring.
What, then to speak?
The heavens were brighter that day,
And many people glanced at the sky,
And engaged in the bark of lunacy,
As abounding or as deficient as the prosperous and the pitiable,
And somehow they understood.
As is this, and as was that evening,
The love of God - the most exquisite,
And all the fair people stood in awe',
Relishing and a stranger cried out,
"No, let it be, forever, as is mercy divine,
For love and hate cannot make ends meet,
But veracity and loyalty and strength and power
Are all connected, as is the earth to the heavens."
And always will be.
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