Jordi Pere Cerdà

You who are mistress

You who are mistress
Of the wheat that swells and of its germ,
In you I confide this thing
That is not herb, not flower.
Rank smell of earth in May.
Din of a sleeping household.
Dark in which the nightingale sings,
So far away it does not reach me.
A spring I know up there,
The animate moon bathes in it.
I confide in you as in a book
The yes and no of life.

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