8
Stay still, if the angel
at your table suddenly decides;
gently smoothe those few wrinkles
in the cloth beneath your bread.
Then offer him your own rough food
so he can have his turn to taste,
so he can raise to that pure lip
a simple, common glass.
Ingenious celestial carpenter,
he lends all a calm attention;
he eats well, imitating your gesture,
so he can build well on your house.
9
The invisible almost shines
above the winged slope;
some of the clear night remains
in this day mingled with silver.
See, the light doesn't press down
on those obedient contours;
and out there, those hamlets, someone
always comforts them for being so far.
17
Before you can count ten,
all changes: wind takes
the brightness from high
stalks of maize
to throw it on all sides;
it flies, it slides
along a precipice
toward a sister brightness
which, already taken up
in this rough game,
in turn moves herself
toward other altitudes.
And, as if caressed,
dazzled by these games
that maybe gave it shape,
the vast surface rests.
22
As someone speaking of his mother
will look like her while talking,
this ardent country slakes itself
but forever remembering.
So the shoulders of the hills
shrink beneath a gesture that begins
in this pure space that hauls them back
to the astonishment of origins.
37
The soul-bird often
soars ahead of us;
it's a sweeter heaven
that already poises it,
while we just plod on
under thick clouds. Still,
grieving, let us profit
from its ardent skill.