The singing of the birds, at dawn,
When the day is mildest,
Happy to be alive, already slips
Between sleep, and the contagious
Joy of one waking to the new day.
Happy smiling at his poor
And broken toy, in the door
Of the house the little child plays alone
By himself, and in happy
Ignorance, enjoys being alive.
The poet, dreaming upon the paper,
His unfinished poem,
Finds it beautiful, rejoices and thinks
With good reason and madness
That nothing matters, his poem exists.
Luis Cernuda, Spanish poet (1902-1963)