This green poem, leaf by leaf,
is rocked by the fertile, southwest wind;
this poem is a country that dreams,
a cloud of light and a breeze of green leaves.
Falls of water, stones, clouds, leaves
and an agile breath in everything, they are the song.
There were palms, palms and the breeze
and a light like swords through the atmosphere.
The loyal wind that rocks my poem,
the loyal wind that the song impels,
rocked the leaves, rocked the clouds, happily
rocking white clouds and green leaves.
I am the voice that gave songs to the wind
pure songs west of my clouds; my heart in every palm,
a broken date tree, united the multiple horizons.
And in my country herding clouds,
I put my heart in the south, and to the north
like two rapacious birds, my eyes
pursued the flock of the horizons.
life is beautiful, a hard hand, shy fingers
as they create the fragile vase
of your song, fill it with your joy or with
the hidden honeys of your crying.
This green poem, leaf by leafs rocked by a fertile wind,
a slender wind that loved the grass and skies of the south,
this poem is the country of the wind.
Under a sky of swords, dark earth,
green trees, green gibberish of the small leaves
and the tardy wind moves the leaves and the days.
Let the wind dance and let the green distances
call me with secret, hidden rustles: a docile woman,
her breast filled with honey, she loved under the
palms of my songs