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You, myself, dry like a defeated wind
which only for a moment could hold in its arms the leaf
it wrenched from the trees,
how is it possible that nothing can move you now,
that no rain can crush you, no sun give back your weariness?
To be a purposeless transparency
above the limpid lakes of your gaze,
oh tempest, oh deluge of long ago!
If since then I seek an image of you that was mine alone,
if within my sterile hands I stifled
the last drop of your blood and my tears,
if since then the world has been indifferent,
in wastelands endless, and each new night
has grown like moss over the memory of your embrace,
how then in the new day can I have any breath but yours,
any but your impalpable arms among mine?
I weep like a mother who has replaced her only dead son.
I weep like the earth which twice has felt the same perfect fruit sprout with it.
I weep because you were destined to be my grief
and already now it is in the past that I belong to you.


Salvador Novo
Translated by Translated by E. Lane, F. Blanton and S. Karlinsky

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