The worls is a festive table,
at a large table we dine.
A heavenly tree above it
spreads its branches above the seas:
a sun shines in its roots,
a moon in its crown.
Only the roots are a zenith
and mildly the edges of the universe glow,
but stil the centre nests everywhere,
(as St. Augustine says)
God sits there to dine
And the choir sings de profundis
from the heart of light.
An invisible hand
builds with light as if with mortar,
the rose is a house too.
All is grandeur balanced in perfect measure.
We should remain awake
and observe each move of the Creator
which brings everything near, under the eaves,
allowing us to cross the threshold of all,
to open the windows from within
and release the shout of clarity.
The night withdraws in the infinite distance
and howls like a wounded beast,
we close the entrance
to keep the crumb of light in the palms