The footfalls of many feet are on the prairies,
Treading softly, like the rustling of shaken grasses;
In the air about me is a sound scarce audible,
As of the wings of silent birds, low-flying. . . .
What are they that move in the luminous mid-day,
Invisibly, intangibly? . . .
It is hot and whisperingly still;
I see only the quivering air, there on the far horizon,
And beyond it a lake of cool water lifted into the sky:
Pleasant groves are growing beside it,
Very distant I see them. . . .
Are these men come out of the silence to walk beside me?
Are these gods who flit with invisible wings?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem