By Luis G. Dato
Little, lone swallow frequenting the skies in the bleakness of oncoming rain,
Gloating on the view by the river reflected when days of sun reappear,
You who can sing in the fullness of sorrow, and in seasons of
gladness easefully sing,
You who in mirth and melancholy alike find joy, joy in you we find.
We who aspire to horizons beyond us and can only lift our eyes,
We who live in transient gladness and hovering gloom,
We of the earth, who cannot fly with you.
What life is yours, who pursue not pleasure and yet have it,
You who know sorrow, and by it be left unoppressed,
You who in shadow arise, and in sunshine pensively dream o’er the river,
Of gladness not taking nor little nor much,
Of sorrow the master more often than not,
Knowing the one and the other as passing, imperfect,
Passing as the clouds in the bleakness of incoming rain,
Imperfect as the vista by the river reflected when days of sun reappear.
