by Manuel LLopis
Chant of silence. Falls asleep the obscure garden
when, from the horizon rushes the winter wind
on the languid places, a shadow awakens.
The intimate fleece of the spring, by its coldness,
finds out at morning a universe of whiteness
victim of the hours leading toward the long sleep.
The old man sees the reflections of the basin
from which springs up curtly a swarm of evening stars,
for illusion of the wish of eternity.
His hand breeze the water of mirror-assassin
but the glow seized is merely the dream mendacious
of gardener improving immortality.
On the branch of the hopefulness the gleam goes off.
The wine of the existence should be drunk slowly
to the diamond-source from our frail destinies.
And, for how long will we have to walk patiently
in order to finally find the paths of bliss?