There is no death but just
another kind of morning –
transcending flesh and blood
Do not complain about
the rugged stones met on the way
as they foretoken
the joy awaiting at the end
You’ll never see the whole unless
you firstly come to fully live
both hopelessness and bliss
Freed from the flesh you’ll learn to think
with your heart only and will see
that nothing counts but love −
love, which envelops everything,
love, which is whirling round,
imbued with love,
the part you are may come to feel the Whole.

Only the mornings matter,
a morning of the soul
may suddenly reveal life’s meaning,
when, climbing the wave’s crest
enveloped in the red of dawn,
you can forget how dangerous the height is,
or when, concerned about the gist of life,
you passionately go through death

Oh, love the mornings as they always mean
awakening from misty death – death of the soul
So love the mornings – as they always are
like a new birth, a renewed taste for life
When you feel you can’t love your mornings
look at the dew how mirrors it the sun,
see how the sun is chasing dark away,
how the new leaves are sprouting
on the branch the most dry,
look at the cracked ground receiving
the rain long-waited for, and don’t forget
that every morning of the soul
will drive the clouds away from your own heart.



translated from Romanian by Roxana Alexandrescu, lobmacor@yahoo.com