Kocbek Edvard:
Lesser Psalm

I sing praise to permanence, there is firmness beneath

   my feet and when I stop I can lean.

I sing praise to the invulnerable world spirit, it always

   forgets its fear, unbroken anew, unfathomable.

I sing praise to the depths of being, the more lonely the

   risk, the nobler the exhaustion.

I sing praise to seeds, their rhythm is always the same,

   they open and close and jealously transmit their secret.

I sing praise to the play of the spirit, it replicates

   in endless haloes, tears loose from tangles, then

   in soft tissue waits for a new manifestation.

I sing praise to gifts that visit us abruptly, one marvels

   at the other, each of them startlingly short-lived.

I sing praise to truth, eternally new, it loves us

   like a virgin bride, we pursue but never reach it.

I sing praise to astonishment, compressing and

   exploding us, and to the bliss gently opening in it.

I sing praise of the finite, that sorrowful sister who

   stands at the edge of the world, uncannily

   calm and submissive.

I sing praise to waiting, it droops inside us like an ear of

   overripe grain, silence is closest to fruition.

I sing praise to motion, which picks us up and always

   sets us before a new mystery.

I sing praise to suffering, which renews us, we change in

   jolts like wood crackling in a fire.

I sing praise to pain, which destroys the heart, blood

   trickles to the ground, assurance bows its head.

I sing praise to bliss, at a loss for sheer sufficiency, an

   uncanny suppleness enfolds and saturates us.

I sing praise to happiness, never in short supply,

   we joyously babble and mindlessly spin, man is a child to be assuaged.

I sing praise to love, which stays to the last, the tiniest

   bird singing a comforting song, I will never forget it again.