THE SWALLOWS

Hurrying, arrowing swallows, on wings resting
high in the blue expanses,
wind-light in whistling gusts
scorning the earth's inertness -
like a laugh of ridicule,
clear, light, ringing,
with contempt your flight meets our hearts' weight,
like a jubilation,
leaping from heights,
tidings of space's own
power that plays, and light can penetrate...
Sun goes down,
but up there lingers all the day's grand state,
round about you,
high in a playfully won,
airy place, happy, fortunate.

For more information, please visit the website of David McDuff and his own pages with the translations.