RIMA I

I know a strange, gigantic hymn
that foretells a dawn in the night of the soul,
and these are pages from that hymn,
verses that the air prolongs in the shadows.

I would like to write it by mastering
man’s poor, inadequate language,
with words that could at once be
sighs and laughter, colors and notes.

But I struggle in vain, since there are
no words to express it, and only—oh beauty!—
if I were able to hold your hands in mine,
might I sing it to you in person.