No. I don't speak, for I breathe in exultation.
I don't draw near in the thrifty pelt of daylight,
but I find far off in the iron eyes of the nights the ore.

So my voice goes deeper and reaches the beasts:
high on the mountains the drinking birds
and lower the warm domes of the toads.

Everywhere that I, bleeding, set foot and drench,
I inhabit it endlessly and alive.
The power of the working woods I have ennobled,
the wood inspired with gentle warmth
and hear how noiselessly the chains of the seas engage,
how soft and glad the horizon melts in the moonlight.

No I do not speak, I scarcely breathe,
for glistening I suck oxygen from luxury.
I belong among the gods.

Translated by Kendall Dunkelberg

From: Hercules, Richelieu and Nostradamus, Green Integer, Los Angeles