By the high white peaks
the waiting
flyes in the blue eye,
breathing the morning ozone.
Among forests without trees,
a rushed spring is born
in the heart
where great light of the Coptic
I am changing like the wind,
from the sweet breeze to the gale,
Drizzle or shower, I am;
over the hill, over the plain,
over your heart, like a leaf I am.
Even rising sun
which lights up and
I will return from within
as from a cold cave,
searching another way,
beyond illusions that fascinated me.
Never could I ever look back
over my shoulder.
I will find myself in the chosen
