Nightfall
When the sun, behind the mountain, is extinguished
and twilight says, “silence,”
and the mists shroud the valley,
of the sun for mourning;
of the afternoon, in brief agony,
when, upon ribs, moans the wind,
like lighthouses on high, are lit
trembling stars.
By their light, veiled
by the subtle gauze of daydreams,
I divine another earth, happy
peaceful and mysterious.
And on the road to the dreamt-up country,
A star—my star—from afar,
Seems to light up the longed-for
shore of heaven.