At the time of night prayer as the sun slides down,
the route the senses walk on closes, and the route to the invisible opens.
The angel of sleep then gathers and drives along the spirits,
just as the mountain keeper gathers his sheep on the slope.
And what amazing sights he offers to the descending sheep.
Cities with sparkling streets, hyacinth gardens, emerald pastures.
The spirit sees astounding beings, turtles turned to men,
men turned to angels, when sleep erases the banal.
I think one could say the spirit goes back to its old home;
it no longer remembers where it lives, it loses its fatigue.
It carries around in life so many griefs and loads
and trembles under their weight. But in sleep they are all gone. All is well.