We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme,

Might not have been just a magical illusion
Of that God I dreamed. Already it’s imprecise
In my memory, the clear Paradise,
But I know it exists, in flower and profusion,

Although not for me. My punishment for life
Is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife
Of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon.

Yet, it’s much to have loved, to have known true joy,
To have had — if only for just one day —
The experience of touching the living Garden.

Translation by Genia Gurarie

We present this work in honor of St. Martin’s Day.

Liberty, ascend to your throne
Of glory on the buckler,
Waving noble palms,
Crowned with laurel.

Like the beautiful flower
With a gathered calyx,
That opens at the explosion
Of the destructive lightning,
The Fatherland, at the hoarse roar
Of the lightning of war,
In May gave to the earth
Its aroma and splendor.

Slave Buenos Aires
Moaned in disconsolation,
When the sun shone in the sky
Of freedom,
And among floating clouds
The star placing,
She said, surrounding her temple:
“Look at my flag!”

Liberty, ascend to your throne
Of glory on the shield,
Waving noble palms,
Crowned with laurel.

Giving the alarm cry
With a powerful echo,
The generous people
Bared their swords;
And destroyed chains,
And tore down crowns,
And conquered laurels
in opposite zones.

Liberty, ascend to your throne
Of glory on the shield,
Waving noble palms,
Crowned with laurel.

The heroes with their blood
Sealed the victory,
Falling with their glory
Beneath the sacred altar,
And the grateful people
Remember their names,
Which the May sun gilds
In the burial urn.

Raising green palms
Woven with the lily,
Glory and martyrdom
Receive your ovation;
And raising patriotic hymns
That fly through the air,
Raise Buenos Aires
Its undefeated flag.

Liberty, ascend to your throne
On the buckler of glory,
Waving noble palms,
Crowned with laurel.