BALLAD OF THE BLACK SORROW

The beaks of cockerels dig,
searching for the dawn,
when down the dark hill
comes Soledad Montoya.
Her skin of yellow copper
smells of horse and shadow.
Her breasts, like smoky anvils,
howl round-songs.
‘Soledad, who do you ask for
alone, at this hour?’
‘I ask for who I ask for,
say, what is it to you?
I come seeking what I seek,
my happiness and my self.’
‘Soledad of my regrets,
the mare that runs away
meets the sea at last
and is swallowed by the waves.’
‘Don’t recall the sea to me
for black sorrow wells
in the lands of olive-trees
beneath the murmur of leaves.’
‘Soledad, what sorrow you have!
What sorrow, so pitiful!
You cry lemon juice
sour from waiting, and your lips.’
‘What sorrow, so great! I run
through my house like a madwoman,
my two braids trailing on the floor,
from the kitchen to the bedroom.
What sorrow! I show clothes
and flesh made of jet.
Ay, my linen shifts!
Ay, my thighs of poppy!

‘Soledad: bathe your body
with the skylarks’ water
and let your heart be
at peace, Soledad Montoya.’

Down below the river sings:
flight of sky and leaves.
The new light crowns itself
with pumpkin flowers.
O sorrow of the gypsies!
Sorrow, pure and always lonely.
Oh sorrow of the dark river-bed
and the far dawn!