The young bird who, ready to fly,
Leaves his nest for the first time
To try out its little wings,
The bullfinch and the nightingale,
The sparrow, the starling, they all strive
        Upward.

The flame that does my cooking and frying,
The blue smoke that wafts aromatically
From the bowl of my pipe,
The wine even, be it heavy or light,
Warming and delighting one, rises
        Upward.

When our terrestrial globe was completed
And when the bright host of angels
Began to praise the work,
God spoke: "I did it well",
And surveyed the splendour of His earth
        From on high.

Therefore, if you would find joy in looking at the world,
It would be best to do so from above.
Rouse yourself briskly, lift your feet!
Let the inkwell and the books rest
And in your hobnailed boots climb
        Upward.