For Saint-John Perse
This morning the bird sings on the boughs
of our cherry-tree
leaps, dances… It knows
that my grandchildren will come to see me.
I know: in the voice of every bird
is written the name of the place it chose
to live
and of the soul of the one who listens to it.
That is why this bird walks through my dreams
hiding in them something from the song of creation.