THE APPEAL
The bell tolled; -- Rise sister
We shall miss church.
From dawn till dusk, -- with gloom,
It's been expecting us.

The bell tolled; -- Rise sister ;

From the flames of the fire temple,
Light reached the candles.
The bosom of the bulky dome,
Is overflowing with blue.

Sister pray, until the rise of the sun.
Look ! the pallid moon's shining
Over the ridge of the mount ;

Oh companion ! rise,
Or, we shall miss church .

After two thousand years, after two thousand years,

The branches of the weeping willow,

By one's holly hands reached throne.

Never again shall Virgin Mary elegantly smile,

For gore's totally turned rosy.

At present, on the highlands,

A thousand argentic springs,

Are turbulent in expanded secrets of night.

Tonight a lonely tree became sacred;

And with gloom, it learnt its only companion

Is his shadow, stretched on the water's.

The golden rings were scattered
On the flagstone of alter;

Scattered them Jesus Christ and Virgin Mary.

Anyone hopes for a virgin bride,

Come forward and pick a pair as gift.

The mist writhed with its rosy coloured bound;

I glimpsed at a lonely man,

(T oo far from this spiritual delusion, In total desolation),

Depart, towards the misty temple.

THE DOLL
She's a little girl, a blue dream,
A blue mist;

A spirit and a whisper, a memory disappeared.

Golden is her hair,
Her frock, silk and purple in colour.

In her past times,

There, never, may've been a horrendous massacre,

Neither will there ever be one, in future.

The moon in their nightly yard glistens;

I wish with the slow chariot carrying my dreams,

It would reach there,

And bring her as gift, shoes and smiling dolls-

A ruby girl is she,
A new year's fog, a fog far beyond.

A doll is she, under a tin trunk;

She's the past.
She's the memory.


THE FIRST MEET
There, in my exhausted heart,
Is nothing to gift you,

If there is,

It be a lake,

An old one, parching.

If there is?

It be a status unstable,

Dark and bright.
There, is a cosy garden
And a bench for tranquility and rest.

But whoever., at departure,

Without'a carving,

Without writing her souvenir

Has ever sat .calm?

If you're anxious to sit in the green garden,

For a rest,

Put not your souvenir there,

As the strokes of your delicate fingers,

Shall bring down, the old intolerable bench,
To the ground.

OPEN YOUR WINDOW

Open your window, to the world-,

And let the autumn wind,

For eternity, home in your bosom,

So you can feel closely,

The moribund dream of a leaf,

Falling down a tree.

And let a shining, gain &. reflection,

In the mirror of your eye,

From the remote fog,

The utmost fog of the sky.

Open your window, to the Spring,

To amass you with •

The elegance of a milky coloured calf,

Stood on grass,

To show you his young head,

(The decrepit white mountainside),

After the melting of the snow.

Open your window to see,

A chariot passing a winding road,

Where drizzles a gentle rain,

To, even forget,

The hearing of some bitter and sad news,

About the destruction of a building in town,

On the radio.

Open you window to the sky,

To see one cloud segregate from another,

And to witness its grief

In the immense axis of the sky.

Open your window to the summer.

Look at the bright fruit that ripens

And think not that the mother of fruit is the tree,

That's turned log, now in your hearth,

Or on your wall (the wall of this room),

Is now lumbre.

Look at the fruits,

You may not recall, that

That elegant tree, has turned to gallows,

Every morn hanging a captive,

A convict or a hard-hearted murderer.
Open your window to the breezes.

But when winter approaches,

Be seated and read this book

And remember, remember

That one day, one day,

A snowdrift must pass through your closed roof

And land on your hair,

Like the stamp of the years(passed away).

But I, the creator of this vernal book,

Shall not exist,

And you should be inquisitive to learn,

If you were another,

Another with this same appearance,

In this very book,

What poems your eyes would witness I

Close your eyes,
And hence, speak out.


THE WHISPERS OF BEYOND
As it always happens, if it happens,

And you're born again

And with a destiny, bright and decreed,

You reach throne,

You must in a village shrine, bare-foot,

Kneel and ask Almighty for that secret,

And the moment that brings you to perfection.

If you're born, a wild, powerful beas-t

And fiercely rule over a wild rosy plain,

The warm colour of blood

Will always astound you

And yet at times,-a single bee,

Which merrily

Sucks the pollen of roses.

If like a bright cloud you're born

And the bewildering winds

Drive you away to unknown quarters of the world,

You must find the remains ot a tomb,

Which no one meets and like a mourning woman

In disguise, shed your tears over it.

If there is no return

And if miraculously, you're not born again,

Be contended and without modesty,

Eel y on this thought, that

In this life,
At least you've been a veracious poet.



DELIRIUM
Thou shalt pass through this gloomy street,

And vainly seek its sices

Thou shalt decamp with blazes of regret,

But thou shalt not find it,

On the pavements.

Thou at each other shalt swear.

Thou, to God, shalt ask for a drop of blood,

To compensate for thy filthy sins,

To wipe thy wounds and thy innumerable spites.

One shalii- say:

He was my companion, a friend of mine.

Third:

I've seen him from far,

But'I thought he was an innocent boy.

Thou mayest whisper:

"unhealth-.y and inflexible he was."

Or yell:

"Bewildering Jew.

Or think:

"Deeply in love was the poor man."

But no one shalt say:

"He was a foe of mine."

Then, it wilt snow,

A snow with a blue shining.

It will be a dream,

Memories wilt revive.

All, thou all shalt rush home,

For, the flames of thy fresh fireplace,

Shalt not die out.

Then, thou shalt say:

"Let the ice melt.

In March, we ahalt seek him,

Seek that man.

Tne inevitable years of emptiness shalt pass,

And the cosmos, wilt turn to a total chaos,

A tota] darkness.

Thou shalt lay the table in a Dark Night

And set again the wine and the holy bread.

And thou'It conscientiously await him,
But crucified wilt be the poet.



THE PRAYER OF WATER AND STOKE

Oh Almighty; was this the reply to all that?

Have I not loved the meadow,

Of blue pansies?

And have I not wished,

All the cool'and exquisite rains,

That turn Hades to heavenly breezes?

Did I not (like the outstanding crags)

Remain a mere crag,

To buss upon the chest of your sun?

Did I not (like a walking log of a branchless tree),

Yield to your commands?

And the bridle of my liberation you held,

Oh, our Eternal, Avenging, Almighty God,

Was this it?

Was I not for the spring a mirror and a leaf?

(And, against the rain, thinner than a thread,

Was there a maiden, like an opened pinkish umbrella)

Oh Father; Oh Eternal,

Was this it?

Oh my heart ! beware,
Water and stone am I.


INTIMACY
(To my wife, Marita Silva)

I feel the scent of pine, fro m your bosom,
Will the new year, this simply come,
Out of the depths of darkness?

Close have you embraced, my strong hands;

Should not one, should not one,
Be called to the dream?
One who in his sunny Indulgence,

In this manner, in his childish sleep,

Has yearned you for my bosom?

One who has yearned for

The gleaming weeping willows,

The moon and the road.

For what were the useless anguishes?s

Now that I've seen you

And you've come in my bosom,

Were my anxieties not in vain

About a few swaying willows,

Over the lake of the night?

-Or a disharmonious body,

Having lain distressed on the bed of dreams?

Like this new year,

Possessing thousands of bright dreams,

I can possess you.

Lend me your ear and hear,
I'm a poet, not only in want
Of composing poems on,
"Butterflies and moonshine".

I want in this tyrant and dark chaos,

On this long void way,

At your scented little station

To find comfort,

To lay my forehead

On your exhausted shoulders,

- That innocently have suffered.-

Like a sweat drop on the forehead of a captured,

All over I begin to shudder.

But your shivering's a drizzle on the roses,

An honest gasp.

With your shivering, yet, as if

A temple collapses.

as a. thunder whose lightning
Has seen no one,
I'm sorrow-stricken.

- Even if is its woeful voice, roaring and dauntless.-

As this dark stone, I'm woeful,

A stone on which, bears a carved figure

Of the distance to the next stop.

But all trains crazily pass in the dark.

And no passenger, no passenger,

Is able to read
The tiny figure carved on that stone.

I'm woeful like that insect,

Which in his one-day life,

Takes the lightning of the thunder,

For a day, and the sunset, an eternity.

Without you, I am a lost station,

A demolished temple.

Without you, I am a gateless tower,

A bare dagger, A flagless Army

And a gory fall- on the cobblestones.

(Then when I love you, I lapse through all novels)

High winds ... Open !

Open the doors !

Cry the winds !

Cry I be calm and pull the winds ,

Let the leather of the night slit open ,

I feel you're a dream, who's turned to reality

After my intoxication.

Or a full vat, who's emerged,

With I, the Pharaoh.

At the frontier of this no-returning road

And this quiet night,

Only did we see

The radiation of the ill-omened thunders

And living in our belief, was a miracle.

I feel the scent of pine, from your bosom.

Will the new year, this simply come,

Out of the depths of the darkness?