Light does not shine from distant suns, does not flicker from stardust
Nor from the Moon in a shabby dress - torn by meteor strikes.
Light hides in your pockets, jumps into your bosom and clings
Like a child eager for a hug. It slides in the wake of your tear on your cheek.
It even enters your eyes, swaying on cones and sticks as on a seesaw.
It shines on the pupils of your possibilities. It deftly descends into the mines of your mind,
into its laboratory of thought and imagination. It shines like a river
with shattered crystals, shining with a smiling sun.
It calls you with the voice of cricket to a meadow with red poppies.
The light draws circles on the ceiling of sadness, passing through the blinds of your soul.
Even in the darkness of the night, while you are sobbing in a sore throat, from the first rooster,
she calls out to you accompanied by the high notes of mandolin, the hum of the harp and the blows of the triangle:
\"And if you want, you will see God in a moment who accompanies you on the road.\"