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  Never let me lose the marvel 
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent 
the solitary rose of your breath 
places on my cheek at night.

  I am afraid of being, on this shore, 
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret 
is having no flower, pulp, or clay 
for the worm of my despair.

  If you are my hidden treasure, 
if you are my cross, my dampened pain, 
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

  never let me lose what I have gained, 
and adorn the branches of your river 
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
 

Translated by John K. Walsh and Francisco Aragon 

Added: 2 Dec 2001 | Last Read: 8 Nov 2009 5:15 AM | Viewed: 6436 times

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