Classic Poem

I know a giant, strange hymn
that proclaims a dawn in the night of the soul,
and these pages are cadences of that hymn,
cadences that the air spreads in the shadows.

I would like to write it, taming
man's rebellious and poor language
with words that would be at once
sighs and laughter, colors and tones.

But the struggle is in vain; there is no cipher
capable of containing it; and hardly, oh my beauty!
could I, holding your hands in mine,
softly sing it to you when we were alone.