1919
La sombra se ha dormido en la pradera.
Los manantiales cantan.
Frente al ancho crepúsculo de invierno
mi corazón soñaba.
¿Quién pudiera entender los manantiales,
el secreto del agua
recién nacida, ese cantar oculto
Will all my suffering die away, O God,
as the soft sound of the leaves dies away?
Will all the echo of stars that I keep in my soul
be light to help me struggle with my form?
And does the true soul awaken at death?
And are our present thoughts swallowed up by shadow?
Oh, how calm the garden is in the rain!
My heart transforms the whole chaste landscape
into a sound of humble, grieving ideas
which sets doves’ wings beating inside me.
The sun comes out.
The garden loses yellow blood.
A stifling sorrow throbs upon the surroundings.
I feel a nostalgia for my restless childhood,
my hopes of being great in love, the hours
spent, like this one, contemplating the rain
with inborn sadness.
Little Red Riding Hood
was walking down the path . . .
My stories are gone; today I meditate in confusion,
confronting the clouded fountain that wells up from my love.
Will all my suffering die away, O God,
as the soft sound of the leaves dies away?
It’s raining again.
The wind is bringing the shadows.