Translation:Dead Idyll

What must she be doing at this hour my Andean and sweet Rita of the reeds and capuli; now that Byzantium asphyxiates me, and my blood dozes, like weak cognac, inside me.

Where must her hands be, hands that in contrition ironed in the evenings whitenesses to come; now, in this rain that saps my desire to live.

What must have become of her flannel skirt; of her yearnings; of her gait; of her taste of the place’s May lilies.

She must be at the door watching some cloud, and in the end she’ll say trembling: “It’s awfully cold... Jesus!” and a wild bird will cry on the tiles.