We present this work in honor of the poet’s 135th birthday.

 

I was born in a white sleeping city
under the pious wing of its eaves,
where in large flowerbeds they look stretched out
its carpet of whiteness the lemon trees.

Staining the horizon they spin restlessly
dominating the landscape from above,
the tireless blades of the weather vanes
defying the clouds in their madness.

City of my grandparents, with your upright
Centennial laurels! Your burning
flamboyants, your lilies of pure white dawn…
Every time I think of you sweetly and distantly,
I compare you in my dreams to a sultana
who, lying on the bed, stretches!