The moon is what we dance with every night
And dance we shall
Being the gods and goddesses that we are
Never wasting love, only sharing it
And always having it returned
For nothing is yours or mine, everything is ours
Soon the leaves will be brown, and the ground will be beige
Even if you are in the prison whose walls are shut out from your senses
The sounds of the outer world.
Would you not then still have your childhood
This precious wealth, this treasure-house of memories
In the realm of understanding, as in that of creativity
To be an artist babe
Means to not compute or count
It means to ripen as the tree
Which does not force its sap
But stands unshaken in the storms of springs
With no fear that Summer might not follow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.