Spring Night

There are signs, in the heavens, but what sort of signs?
When will we understand the language of God
in that vast and tangled ants' nest
of triangles traced through points of light?
Never did I feel more isolated than when I lifted
my eyes toward the blue, milk-stained night
without anything on earth to provide
a landmark as my spirit departed.
What is this gold and vermillion atlas,
more frightening even than Columbus',
with its ocean from which the Earth embarks?
We know the day of the great shipwreck is coming.
While we wait, let us do as the nightingale does,
at the top where everything ends, stretching his neck
so Paradise may listen at leisure to his song?
naked, solitary, anxious, sad and tender.

Poem by Francis Jammes