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.
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