Why are the landscapes beautiful, and the approaches to the forest at twilight
drawn to the melody of the pipes warming in your breast,
and the bluish puddle on the other side of the railroad tracks
make the tune in your heart tremble and the body yearn to step over its banks
as if once, on a childhood evening, it walked there…?
Because every landscape in the world has its souls that were joined to it
by the finest desires and the sweetness of the heart’s exaltation
in the days when love rose as if blooming spring and summer together,
and also in the days of a late-summer tear glistening in the mystery of parting…
and the ripened fruit reddening in the gardens…
No landscape is beautiful for itself, in its forest and its river and its well.
It takes its beauty, in all its facets and luscious scents, abundantly
from the souls who walk within it the walks of longing,
and from the jubilation in the blood and the living lyreness of the body…
With this weave the beautiful souls embroidered this empyrean
and stamped it with its verdant hues and poured wines of myrrh
into the feathery softness of its clouds.