There must be a thousand homecomings
before we can say to each other, "I love you."
We must exercise a superb patience,
and wait for all the signs to be fulfilled.
First, the noonday sun must shine
into the forest's west side and dispel all
shadows. A spring harvest must exceed all
expectations. Twelve deer, both male and female,
must leave the woods, and eat apple slices
from the palms of our hands. Two eagles,
perched high above, must descend, circle
the forest and then fly away on a northerly
trajectory. Rain that falls just after dawn
must smell as sweet as honey, and nocturnal
rainfall must hover over your sleep.
These signs are only the beginning. A blind man
must find his way to your house. You must serve
him freshly baked bread. A deaf woman must tell
me in sign language that in her sleep she hears
the music of Mahler. A man who has abandoned
his family must return to help his teenage
children in their rites of passage. A wife
and husband who have both betrayed their vows
must every morning seek the other's forgiveness
until a New Love raises their lives to a higher
union. And on an ordinary morning or on an evening
as quiet as the prayers of the redeemed, we will
become aware of an angel casually leaning against
a simple elm tree, and we will know we have achieved
the last homecoming required for our love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem