XLIX
THE FINAL DREAM

Lift me up to the Father, Mother of Grace,
and put me in His arms so that there my soul
may sleep; it is sick from lack of rest, and now
the insomnias of doubt have weakened my faith.

Ask your Beloved to give me restful sleep
and let His warmth penetrate my soul like sperm;
it is only in sleep that His warmth can alleviate
the diabolical boldness of this empty life.

This anxious bread of toil  demands sleep,
sleep in the arms of the Lord where the cradle
made from the sacred wood of pain rocks back

and forth. This sleep is a mystical pool
where in the eternal baptism of April showers,
with help of our sister death, life is renewed.