Translated from the Spanish by Jonathan Canel
And after the evenings, will we be an end to sleep?
Could it be that we dawn after hours of reason
and whitewashed days, when the light would tremble
over wounded eyes, snapping the roots of
the white almond blossom, the sweats of silver
set upon the arid grass of a parched and slender vision?
Corazón… corazón…
I pronounce you with fear, a word consumed
by centuries of poetry: easy decoration
for lyricism purchased only with your name.
The lyre broken, there remains… perhaps a thought?
Or will we find, beating, something like fervor
that finally will be ours?
Corazón… corazón…