by Bartolomeu Anania
I’m drawing near you in timidity sweet,
as mild fame approaches the fog of the hay,
I balance the air like the cloud, lonely cloud,
too heavy for heaven, too easy for clay.
I’m happy with you in a delicate song,
like dew in a flower, like shell in a wave,
for only through you does my breath spark along
the eighth sheer light on cold rainbows away.
Through you I am saved in a wonder divine,
like thought doesn’t know, like the tongue doesn’t say,
like only the mirror my being it hums,
one face in the light, and one face in the clay.
I sing of you, Lady, with miracle sweet,
while my heart is caught in a very fine string,
like apple in perfume, like star in a ray,
attempting the ever on this present blink.