Oh, this moment suspended, With the song of birds dipped in gold, Where the sky merges with the fields, And each blade of grass holds the air, Breathes the essence of the divine— Here exists the pulse of creation.
- Salvatore Quasimodo
Oh, this moment suspended, With the song of birds dipped in gold, Where the sky merges with the fields, And each blade of grass holds the air, Breathes the essence of the divine— Here exists the pulse of creation.