Hearing the nightingale

Gisela Bellsolà:

Nightingale of the thickets;
I, like you, am yearning;
your sweetest song
reminds me of paradise.

One morning you learned it,
the first morning of the world;
of all the springtimes
you drank it in at the source.

You sing to her at dawn
to our graceful mother
the first morn
of the first joyous April.

Oh! What a dawn, that dawning
of life and light!
All flowers were in bloom,
all odours were perfume.

There were no pests in the garden,
nor in the heart was there gall,
the brow had no wrinkle,
nor clouds in the sky.

Rafael Subirachs:
In the morning the clear star
conversed with the flower,
the queen with the maid
from the balcony to the street.

And of the star and the rose
you are their troubadour,
and still your lovely dawn song
has never been matched.

Gisela Bellsolà and Rafael Subirachs:
Close to the Source of life,
tell me who rules it?
Was it the blooming star
under the feet of Jehovah?

Was it the starlight that combs
its hair among the pines,
near that river that untangles
its silvery curls?

Were there some eyes half opened
or the first dream of some heart,
or the yearning and love
of the first couple.

His yearning, to find himself
so alone in a garden so rich?
The love of those two, like ivy
finding its friend the tree,

upon drinking a kiss from her lips
or a glance from her eyes,
when the hearts of our ancestors
were as pure as the first leaves?

Rafael Subirachs:
But the songs you remember
are not earthly songs;
they sprang from the strings
of the heavenly harps.

Perhaps you hear them now
if from the blue sky, at night
something still leaks out , echoes
of the concerts of the infinite?

Rafael Subirachs and women’s chorus:
From that hour of mystery
melodious echoes
to which, high in the hemisphere
stars and worlds rock.

women’s chorus:
Perhaps you pick up the harmony
that rains down from the blossoming sky,
for the solace of he who dreams
of such unearthly exile.

Nightingale, sing and trill
with your voice of golden thread
upon which notes and notes
of joy and sadness are strung;

women’s and men’s chorus:
melodies that slip down
and seraphim wing beats
the roll along like fine pearls
or fall in a stream;

Gisela Bellsolà and Rafael Subirachs, women’s and men’s chorus:
sweet murmuring of the leaves
little kisses of the waters and flowers,
mysterious languages
of souls and hearts.

You are the harp that remained
when to Adam here in the world
ah! happiness dried up
like the waters of a spring.

From that Spring of life
only you keep its murmuring
in your languid trill
that makes one weep in sadness.

But in the tears of yearning
for Eden closed to us
I hear the song of hope
that God will open it to us.

Troubadour of the thickets
I, like you, am yearning;
your sweetest song
transports me to paradise.