We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Your slow desolation, you coal
of delirium, puts my soul
into mourning. Yet a phrase
of black notes transforms my sigh
into a heavenly butterfly.

The taste of fresh rose petals
intoxicates my arid tongue,
and moistens my song unsung:
my naïve happiness in the loss above
only to find the lips of my love.

Themes of love, my humble flute
will sing in praise.
I am pale yet happy all my days,
and in the evening, as the piragua sails,
marking the water with childlike nails,
my sweetheart will sing the same salute.

Translation by John H. Reid