It’s a beautiful summer night.
The balcony doors
of the tall houses
open onto the large plaza of the old town.
In the deserted, wide rectangle,
stone benches, hedges and acacias,
symmetrically draw
their black shadows onto white sand.
The moon, at its zenith, and on the tower,
the illuminated face of the clock.
I stroll in this old town
alone, like a phantom.

Referencia

The mountains of my land 
Look at themselves in the sea 
And the oak trees that dress them 
Breathe in a salty pond. 

The wild sea of my land 
Rocks the mountains 
And they fall asleep feeling 
The sea in their guts. 

Oh! My coastal Biscay, 
Mountainous land, 
Your summits kiss the sky 
And the sea kisses you! 

Your deep sea and your mountains, 
I carry within myself, 
A crown you gave me in the heavens, 
A root in the abyss.

Este poema proviene de su primer poemario llamado Poesías (Poemas) de 1907

Referencia

A long road 
Between gray rocky slopes 
And a humble meadow 
Where black bulls graze. 
Brambles, weeds, rock-roses. 

The earth is wet 
From drops of dew 
And the poplar grove gilded, 
Near the river bend. 
Beyond the violet hills 
The first light of dawn has broken: 
A gun hanging on his back, 
With his keen greyhounds, 
A hunter is walking.

Referencia

The plaza has a tower 
the tower has a balcony 
the balcony has a lady 
the lady has a white flower. 

A gentleman has walked by, 
who knows what for! 
and he has taken the plaza 
with its tower and its balcony, 
with its balcony and its lady, 
its lady and her white flower.


Referencia

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. 
Nobody is asleep. 
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. 
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, 
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the 
street corner 
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the 
stars. 

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody. 
Nobody is asleep. 
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse 
who has moaned for three years 
because of a dry countryside on his knee; 
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much 
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet. 

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! 
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth 
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead 
dahlias. 
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; 
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths 
in a thicket of new veins, 
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever 
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders. 

One day 
the horses will live in the saloons 
and the enraged ants 
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the 
eyes of cows. 

Another day 
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead 
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats 
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue. 
Careful! Be careful! Be careful! 
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm, 
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention 
of the bridge, 
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, 
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes 
are waiting, 
where the bear's teeth are waiting, 
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, 
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder. 

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody. 
Nobody is sleeping. 
If someone does close his eyes, 
a whip, boys, a whip! 
Let there be a landscape of open eyes 
and bitter wounds on fire. 


No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one. 
I have said it before. 

No one is sleeping. 
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the 
night, 
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight 
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters. 

Referencia

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away 
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth. 

As all things are filled with my soul 
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy. 

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence. 

And let me talk to you with your silence that is bright 
as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid. 

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Referencia