I wish I smelt jasmines giving their greetings
To a dying Sun whose lasting rays are not
The perishable hands of mine that allot
Rough or smooth as clear sensations to all things.
Those rays are accurate spears hurting a lot
The sight of men as well as the air that brings
To every being a powerful touch which swings
The tallest trees, carries birds, reaches the thought.
I’ve been told the wind speaks the obscure language
Of a bird that tastes a car screeching, of beings
Giving a hard-working lifetime in exchange.
It may be true: I heard the leaves rustling and
Stopped; it was the Earth giving me courage
Not to notice light, but the jasmines’ scent band.