Esquilones de plata
llevan los bueyes.
–¿Dónde vas, niña mía,
de sol y nieve?
–Voy a las margaritas
del prado verde.
–El prado está muy lejos
y miedo tiene.
–Al airón y a la sombra
mi amor no teme.
and the dream of faraway places.
The light of dawn brings
seedbeds of nostalgia
and the eyeless sorrow
of the soul’s marrow.
The great grave of night
lifts its black veil
to hide, by means of the day,
the immense starry summit.
What am I to do in these fields
collecting nests and branches,
surrounded by the dawn
while my soul is full of night?
What shall I do if your eyes are
dead to the bright light
and my flesh will not feel
the warmth of your glances?
Why did I lose you forever
on that bright afternoon?
Today my breast is parched
like an extinct star.