What Can Be More Magical Than Morning
What Can Be More Magical Than Morning
What can be more magical than morning permissive one than the living dance,
that frenetic dance of light in which you hand me the crystal glass,
in which you whisper to me about the leaf so fragrant and damp radiant,
of the night's darkness that smells like the incense of magical golden morning.
My boots have transformed into flames poor merchant of living dreams,
and I could cross with bare feet over the dominion of sacred water,
and of the reed I caught flat perch and crucian carp with my hand from sheds,
and orchards and you gave me the keys to the house full of pure crystalline water.
And of the well full of magical mud old and wise living being,
their most significant power was that they bound themselves soulfully to the horizon,
of the unforeseen of some possibilities that belonged to pure magical idea,
and to materialization in concrete and you had someone to talk to always.
You will retreat to a denser hill and you will grow old with sacred dignity,
told me a sort of their guide a sort of chieftain dressed,
in civilian clothes I still had on me the Spanish dagger with golden Moorish ornaments,
my father's bone cigarette holder and the silk handkerchief from which I never parted.
Like a key solitude swift and short in the name of the one who ascended,
in the arms of faith as on wings and further what can be further than light,
well the bridge with smell of roses and jasmine the caressing fingers of earth,
and the whiteness spun from behind the shadow that is shadow and light united in dance.
Morning is more magical than night because light dances gently everywhere,
you permissive one you hand me the glass in which I can drink the golden light,
you whisper to me about the damp fragrant leaf of the night that feeds me magically,
my boots have transformed and now I dance barefoot over the dominion of sacred water.
I caught fish with my bare hand from sheds and orchards like a happy sorcerer,
and you gave me the keys to the house full of water and to the well with magical mud,
old wise grateful one who holds the sacred keys in open palms,
their power was that they bound themselves to the horizon of the unforeseen of the pure living idea.
More than idea and than materialization and you had someone to talk to there always,
you will retreat to the dense hill and you will grow old with dignity said the chieftain,
guide dressed in civilian clothes and I had the Spanish dagger with golden Moors,
my father's bone cigarette holder and the silk handkerchief that protects me.
Solitude like a key swift and short opens in the name of the one who ascended,
in the arms of faith as on wings of light and further what can there be than bridge,
with smell of roses and jasmine the fingers that caress the black fat earth,
and the whiteness spun from behind the shadow that is more luminous than the light of magical morning.
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