The Book of Nature
(For Spanish translation click here)

Professor of sobs—I said to a tree—

bludgeon, linden tree

murmuring, to the banks of the Marne, a good student

reads your fortune in your withered leaves

between evident water and false sun,

your three of cups, your horse of gold.

Rector of chapels in the sky,

of the ardent fly, of the laborious calm in donkeys;

rector of profound ignorance, a bad student

reads your fortune in your withered leaves,

hunger of reason that maddens

and the thirst of dementia drives him crazy.

Mechanical screams, aware and strong upright tree,

water moving, sun-like, double, fanatic,

connoisseur of cardinal roses, completely

shaved, almost to the drawing of blood, stinging, a student

reads your fortune in your withered leaves,

your precocious king, telluric, volcanic, king of swords.

Oh professor for having not known so much!

Oh rector for having trembled in this air!

Oh technician for so much that bends you!

Oh linden tree! Oh musing stick by the Marne!

21 October 1937