The Marvel of Freedom in Patches

The vault opens at dawn.
The calyx of an Arctic alpine forget-me-not reopens
for an enchanting glory of sunshiny dreams,
because of the eternally august poem
that reads lenient and benign.

Throughout the day.
there is up there a paradisiacal flight
of all halcyon seraphim
singing through the stoicism and eudemonia
of many celestial dreamers.

Under the sun: a rhythm in wings of butterflies.
After evenfall, the paradise closes itself.
The springtide has gone to bed in aestival splendor.

Then, overnight, a balmy sempiternity sleeps as well.
Here below, a sensitive firefly flies
above a so ravishing earth,
in danger owing to the raveners of the night.
Indeed spared thanks to the sheen of Luther’s star,
the earth becomes a dazzling hereafter.
It remains not far from June sparks, the little fire.