In the glad hours of the morning - Homero Aridjis

In the glad hours of the morning
it is lovely to stroll out under the sun.
Its rays spill down around the arms
and the radiance of its rings reverberates
through the blue ocelli in the Wings.
A tongue of gold kisses your naked feet
and the distant night makes its way
as far as the eye can walk along it.
All is warm along the hills painted old gold,
and the knolls appear like stone pineapples.
In its Waters, the river of your childhood bears
the bodies from your imagination into view.
Drunk on colour, hands play
with the white figures of light at its edge.
At each instant the yellow windows of the air
are opened. Each Window looks out
over a madness of fields.
The eye hears the silence go golden.
You lean against the purple walls of day.
For one moment, the brightness is bent on being perpetual.
A cloud curtails its splendour.

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Homero Aridjis (born 1940) Mexico
Translated by George McWhirter