THE SOUL IS DEPARTED

The bull does not know you, nor the fig-tree,
nor the horses and ants of your household.
The child does not know you, nor the evening,
because you are for ever dead.

The ridge of stone does not know you,
nor the black flatness in which you crumble.
Your mute memory does not know you
because you are for ever dead.

Autumn will come, heralded by shell-horns,
grapes of mist and huddled mountains,
but no-one will want to look into your eyes
because you are for ever dead.

Because you are for ever dead,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead who forget themselves
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

No-one knows you. No. But I will sing you.
I will sing your graceful form for future years.
The renowned maturity of your understanding.
Your hunger for death and the taste of his mouth.
The sadness of your gallant joy.

Andalusia will not soon see, if ever,
a son so bright, so rich in adventure.
I will sing of his elegant grace with words that moan
and I recall a sad breeze in the olive trees.