Blessed are those whose lives unfold in wings,
The butterflies, and those on whom the moonbeams fall,
Blessed are those who pluck the roses of spring,
And those who harvest wheat.

Blessed are those who doubt Death's fatal knell,
For having now sweet Paradise's song,
And blessed the wind that bloweth where it will
And knoweth the infinite is sweet.

Blessed are the glorious and the strong,
Victors self-charmed against compassion's string,
And blessed too those blessed and smiled upon
Gathered at gentle Francis' feet.

We have known hard times.
We have walked many a road.
We have sought to understand the word
Soughed by the aspen tree.

Federico García Lorca