I'm off to copy mountains, rivers, clouds,

I take out my pen, and note down

the soaring bird

or a spider in her silkworks;

nothing else occurs to me: I am air,

the open air where the wheat swirls.

I am pulled into flight by the unpredictable

movement of a leaf, or by the round

eye of a fish, immovable in the lake,

or by the statues which fly among the clouds,

the arithmetic of rain.

I notice no more than the transparency of

the springtime, I sing the song of the wind,

while history rolls by on its wagon

with its clutter of epitaphs and medals.

It passes, and all I feel is the river

as I stand alone in this spring air.

Brother, sister, don't you know

they are waiting for you?

I know, I know it well, but here beside the water,

with the crackle and perfection of cicadas

at the place where they wait for me I too am waiting,

hoping for a glimpse, so that I might know at last

what it is to be me.

And when I do arrive at that place where I am waiting for myself

I'll send myself off to sleep laughing, and die of ecstacy.