On paper boats, in the morning hour,
you can hear the sea’s longing, in ice bells.
On paper boats, in midday hour,
when children sleep, and billy goats are silent in the stable.
On paper boats, in long evening hour,
when the shepherd gathers once more the whole flock.
What faces of light we keep in our memory,
for we don’t have enough time to carve them precisely,
and how many pages will remain unwritten
of the mysterious embodiment, confessed in dreams?
You will prepare a rich table, sprinkled with red wine,
in the wonderful house, guarded by archangels.
On paper boats, on a copper sea,
You will come again, My Lord, surrounded by glory.