Day — the planet’s cheek
Seeks light, the flame of a star,
Wrapped in vacuum, in snares,
Whether below or above.

Holding the sun’s hand,
So as not to slip from the plank of orbits,
Earth seeks a little window in space,
Does not halt its flight.

When at last will it glimpse
The marked-out goal?
And the sun in its dance warms:
“Trust me, I will get you there.”