who?

Oh! Who has picked these thorns for my heart? Who has spread these blossoms?

What bamboo’s music is this
every tone so rhythmic,
that life suddenly comes alive?
This song comes from what lips,
exploding in carefree melodies,
filled with the joy of uncounted streams?
What untouched blossom is this
that lines of black bees come zooming in
to collect its wine-like pollen?
Heart! Who has picked these thorns for my heart? Who has spread these blossoms?
What kind of mad thirst is this,
that has not learned to ask,
the joy of desiring nothing?
This strange, unknown hope,
loses itself, losing reason,
is its faith nourished in hopelessness?
What kind of lost bloom is this,
which comes seeking the early spring
becoming the heart’s rejoicing?
Ah! Who has picked these thorns for my heart? Who has spread these blossoms?
What live darkness is this,
which comes seeking me,
spontaneously igniting the flame of love?
Whose deaf dreams are these,

that listen to nothing else
that come floating always in my eyes?
What flame is this
that arose today to light,
the hundred lamps of love?
Tell me! Who has picked these thorns for my heart? Who has spread these blossoms?