LIGHT

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 the smiling sun.
It calls you with the voice of Nazor's cricket to the meadow with red poppies.
The light draws circles on the ceiling, passing through the blinds of your sadness.
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 pearls, with the hum of the harp and the blows of the triangle:
"And if you want, you will in a moment see God who accompanies you on the road."