Epiphany

She passes quietly in a divine dream,

by the coolest of your lakes, oh Norway.

The subtle pink blood that gilds her fine collar

is as soft as the rays of dawn on the snow.

At the vague murmur of ash and birch,

in the sparkling charm of the hour,

she goes, reflected in the pale azure of the water,

skimmed by a silent flight of butterflies.

When a furtive breeze riffles her blonde hair,

ineffable ashes wash over her shoulder

and her eyes, the colour of beautiful nights at the Pole,

are so transparent that they tint her long lashes silver.

Untarnished by shadow and desire, having hoped for nothing

from this fleeting world where no winged creatures remain,

never having smiled or wept,

these calm eyes are open to the heavenly horizon.

And the pensive guardian of the mystical orange tree

leans down from the balconies of the eternal Dawn

and watches this light ghost pass

in the folds of an immortally white robe.