We awaited the child
Through the tempest.
From what corner of the sky or time
Would he come?
His small form was already in view;
but what soul did it bring?
And the wind blew . . . Gardens and roofs
swept by its fury . . .
Leaves on high, by sea and cloud
on that airy day.
We awaited the child,
He was the wind-flower.
And the wind which came from far, so far,
was the secret stair
bringing him — alone? sad? mute?
Beyond Life — like Death —
why this rebirth of the theme?
We awaited the child
Who was the wind of love,
but in our smile and our hope
there were tears.
Perhaps the child would arrive tired
with his melancholy legacy.
And the wind was his deserted path . . .
O, floating bridge and shadow!
What can we offer the child?
What can we? What, must we?
After this long sojourn?
For him to stay on barren earth,
Since he comes, yet comes, to us
Through the wind’s abyss?

Translated by Henry K. Keith