Cantores Que Reflexionan

In the prison of anxiety
a star meditates out loud;
it groans and stirs like a lion,
as if wanting to escape.
Where does its steed come from
with that overwhelming shine?
The glow that emanates from its being
seems fake!
'It comes from Satan's realm,'
his blood replied,
'you burn the tree of love,
leaving ashes in your wake'.

He is a prisoner of pleasure
and a servant of vanity;
he seeks the light of truth,
but lies are at his feet.
Glory stubbornly extends its net
and imprisons his heart
in the silences of his voice
that fades away unintentionally.
The artificial lamp
has blinded his reason.
Give him your hand, friend Sun,
in his tremendous darkness!

What is he singing, I ask?
No answer can be found.
The bee is vain without its honey,
the sickle is vain without the reaper.
Is money a light
for eyes that cannot see?
'Thirty denarii and a cross,'
Israel's echo replies.
Where does your lie come from,
and where does your truth begin?
Your gaze seems like a joke,
your laughter seems like crying!

And his conscience finally said,
'sing to man in his pain,
in his misery and sweat,
and in his reason for existence.'
When from the depths of his being
understanding spoke to him thus,
a new wine sweetened
the bitterness of his gall.
Today his song is a hoe
that opens furrows in living,
to justice at its root,
and to the torrents of his voice.

In his divine understanding,
lights sprang forth from the singer.