Many a man, cool and empty

Many a man, cool and empty, fears to bathe himself
in the foam of feeling, in the shower of thought.

He's afraid of the light piercing through,
of dancing among mulleins, like bees madly swooning.

He doesn't want to grow into a bird of light, into a velvet rose,
blooming boldly, humbly, rising for ever
towards the more beautiful...

He doesn't want to step on sunbeams: only then
could he embrace everything.
And he doesn't feel a great love
that could extinguish all lustre.

This is enough for him, cool and empty:
his coolness, emptiness.

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