April 1918
(Granada)
My heart is a butterfly,
good children of the meadow,
which, captured by the gray spider of time,
possesses the fatal pollen of disillusionment!
As a boy I sang just like you,
good children of the meadow,
I loosed my sparrow hawk with its dread
four catlike talons.
I passed through the garden of Cartagena,
invoking the vervain,
and I lost my lucky ring
when crossing the imaginary stream.7
I was also a knight
on one cool May afternoon.
At that time “she” was a riddle to me,
a blue star on my untouched breast.
Cabalgué lentamente hacia los cielos,
era un domingo de pipirigallo,
y vi que en vez de rosas y claveles
ella tronchaba lirios con sus manos.
Yo siempre fui intranquilo,
niños buenos del prado,
el ella del romance me sumía
en ensoñares claros.
¿Quién será la que coge los claveles
y las rosas de mayo?
¿Y por qué la verán sólo los niños
a lomos de Pegaso?
¿Será esa misma la que en los rondones
con tristeza llamamos
Estrella, suplicándole que salga
a danzar por el campo? . . .
En abril de mi infancia yo cantaba,
niños buenos del prado,
la ella impenetrable del romance
donde sale Pegaso.
Yo decía en las noches la tristeza
de mi amor ignorado,
y la luna lunera, ¡qué sonrisa
ponía entre sus labios!
¿Quién será la que corta los claveles
y las rosas de mayo?
Y de aquella chiquita, tan bonita,
que su madre ha casado,
¿en qué oculto rincón de cementerio
dormirá su fracaso?
Yo solo con mi amor desconocido,
sin corazón, sin llantos,
hacia el techo imposible de los cielos
con un gran sol por báculo.
¡Qué tristeza tan seria me da sombra!,
niños buenos del prado,
cómo recuerda dulce el corazón
los días ya lejanos . . .
¿Quién será la que corta las claveles
y las rosas de mayo?
I slowly rode my steed into the skies
on that Sunday of sainfoin,
and I saw that, in place of roses and carnations,
she was snapping irises with her hands.
I was always restless,
good children of the meadow,
the “she” of old ballads immersed me
in bright daydreams.
Who will be the woman picking the carnations
and the roses of May?
And why will she be seen only by the children
who are astride Pegasus?
Will she be the same woman whom in our round games
we sadly call
Star, imploring her to come out
and dance in the field? . . .
In the April of my childhood I would sing,
good children of the meadow,
about the unfathomable “she” of the ballad
in which Pegasus appears.
At night I’d recite the sorrow
of my neglected love,
and the moon-moon, what a smile
it placed on her lips!
Who will be the woman cutting the carnations
and the roses of May?
And that young girl, so pretty,
whom her mother married off,
in what hidden corner of a cemetery
can her failed life be sleeping?
I alone with my unrecognized love,
without a heart, without tears,
heading for the impossible ceiling of the skies
with a big sun for a staff.
What a serious sorrow shades me,
good children of the meadow,
how my heart tenderly recalls
those already distant days! . . .
Who will be the woman cutting the carnations
and the roses of May?