(Granada)
A Ramón P. Roda
Hay dulzura infantil
en la mañana quieta.
Los árboles extienden
My soul-armoire is overgrown with moss
and I’ve lost the key.
Without any wind,
pay heed to me!
Spin around, my heart;
spin around, my heart.
Breezes, gnomes, and winds
from nowhere,
gnats of the rose
with petals like pyramids,
trade winds weaned
among the rough trees,
flutes in the storm,
leave me!
My memory
has sturdy chains,
and captive is that bird
which sketches the afternoon
with its warbling.
The things that depart never return,
as everyone knows,
and amid the bright throng of the winds
it’s pointless to lament.
Isn’t that so, black-poplar, teacher of the breeze?
It’s pointless to lament!
Without any wind,
pay heed to me!
Spin around, my heart;
spin around, my heart.