And why shouldn't it be true that there's a soul?
What labor does it cost God, who fibrils
the phosphorescent tulle of the nebulae,
who veins brushstrokes so subtle
of light on the comets that never fail,
to give immortality to the spirit?
Is it more incomprehensible, by chance,
to be reborn than to be born? Is it more absurd
to go on living than to have lived,
to be unwitnessed and exist, as around
us here throb and exist
numberless forms that science
surprises every instant
with its lynx eyes?
Hope, our commonplace bread;
hope, nurse of the wretched;
murmur to me those intimate words
that in silent night feign,
in the inmost obscurity of my mind,
whispers of white seraphim...
Isn't it true that I will encounter my dead?
If you know, why do you not inform?
English Translation by Isabel Chenot