A Poet Thinks

The rain is due to fall,

The wind blows softly.

 

The branches of the cinnamon are moving,

The begonias stir on the green mounds.

 

Bright are the flying leaves,

The falling flowers are many.

 

The wind lifted the dry dust,

And he is lifting the wet dust;

Here and there the wind moves everything.

 

He passes under light gauze

And touches me.

 

I am alone with the beating of my heart.

 

There are leagues of sky,

And the water is flowing very fast.

 

Why do the birds let their feathers

Fall among the clouds?

 

I would have them carry my letters,

But the sky is long.

 

The stream flows east

And not one wave comes back with news.

 

The scented magnolias are shining still,

But always a few are falling.

 

I close this box on my guitar of jasper

And lay aside my jade flute.

 

I am alone with the beating of my heart.

 

Stay with me tonight,

Old songs.