To all, to you silent beings of the night who took my hand in the darkness, to you...

Lamps
of immortal light,
star lines,
staff of life,
secret brethren,
to all, to you,
I say: there's no giving thanks,
nothing can fill the wineglasses
of purity,
nothing can
contain all the sun in the invincible
springtime's flags,
like your quiet dignity.

I only
think
that I've perhaps been worthy of so
much simplicity,
of a flower so pure,
that perhaps I'm you,
that's right,
that bit of earth,
flour,
and song,
that natural batch that knows
whence it comes and where it belongs.

I'm not such a distant bell
or a crystal buried so deep
that you can't decipher,
I'm just people,
hidden door,
dark bread,
and when you welcome me,
you welcome yourself;
that guest
repeatedly beaten
and repeatedly reborn.

To all, to all,
to whomever I don't know,
to whomever never heard this name,
to those who dwell
all along our long rivers,
at the foot of the mountains,
in the sulfuric shadow of copper,
to fishermen and farmhands,

to the blue Native on the shores
of lakes sparkling like glass,
to you, to the one who unknowingly
has awaited me,
I belong and acknowledge and sing.