La vita è bella

Out of this word was born
time -- rainbows of clouds
or of fern.
And laughter or sadness rings --
shining mornings or dusk
of the peaks so high.
The life repeats itself
inevitable and like a death, --
after the pyre -- dust,
and then a flower.
And how many others
will speak to the stars,
with blazing hands will look for
some signs. And we, dear,
will be the splashes
of that sea boundless,
that always
loves.

Life is splendid!