The cemetery is near
where you and I are sleeping,
between blue prickly-pears,
blue agaves and children,
who scream excitedly
if the dead darken the road.
From here to the cemetery, all
is blue, golden, clear.
Four paces, and the dead.
Four paces, and the living.
Clear, blue and golden,
my son there grows remote.
Miguel Hernández
Translation by A. S. Kline