We present this work in honor of the poet’s 150th birthday.

 

Tropic village night: the hours
slow and grave. The vesper bell,
and then, as the ladies return,
the musical closing of the gate…

Suddenly, the incongruous sound
of peasant clogs. And in the drowsiness
of things, what a smell of chocolate
and cheese, of yucca bread and honey-cake!

Far off in clandestine shadow,
in the rustic stable, a jackass
brays taps for his donkey love
with a friendly squeeze on his accordion…

Only the druggist, my neighbour,
keeps stolid watch behind his counter,
to sell —with a sibylline gesture—
two cents’ worth of castor oil…

While the moon, from its arcane depth,
outlines the church. In its blue vault
the tumid moon is like a pimple…
And the church an enormous nursing-bottle

Translation by Donald Devenish Walsh