Translation:Leaves of Ebony

My cigarette is glowing; its light cleans itself in powders of alertness. And at its yellow wink a pastor-boy sings the tamarind of his dead shadow.

The entire hovel drowns in a blackened energy he withered distinction of its whiteness A fragile aroma of downpour languishes.

All the doors are very old, an insomniac piety of a thousand baggy eyes grows weary in his moth-eaten Havana cigar. I left them in good shape; and today the cobwebs have been woven to the heart of its boards, clumps of shadow smelling of forgetfulness. The woman on the path, the day she saw me arrive, tremulous and sad, with her arms half-open, shouted as in a cry of joy. That in every fiber there exists for the eye that loves, a sleeping pearl of a woman, a hidden tear.

With I don’t know what memory my anxious heart whispers. -Ma’am?... –Yes, sir; she died in the village; I still see her wrapped in her shawl...

And the grandmother bitterness of the neurasthenic chant of an outcast- oh, defeated legendary muse! sharpen its melodic torrents beneath the dark night: as if beneath, beneath, in the turbid fragmented pupil of an open tomb, celebrating perpetual funerals, fantastic daggers were breaking.

It’s raining..., it’s raining... It condenses the downpour, reducing it to funerary odors, the mood of old camphors that keep watch tahuash-ing on the path with their ponchos of ice and without hats.