I don’t even know for whom is this sorrow!
Oh, Sun, you who are dying, take it
and hang, like a blood-soaked Christ,
my bohemian pain over her breast.
The valley is of bitter gold;
and the journey is sad, is long.
You hear? A guitar is growling. Hush!
It’s your race, the little old woman
who upon knowing you’re the guest and that they hate you
nails down her face with a white welt.
The valley is of bitter gold,
and the ordeal is long..., long...
The road turns blue, the river barks...
It lowers itself, this forehead, sweaty and cold,
ferocious and deformed. The broken pommel
of a humanicidal sword falls!
And the scraggy holy valley of gold,
the ember of sweat extinguishes in a cry!
There remains an odor of time cultivated with verses,
for shoots of consecrated marble that would inherit
the golden song
of the lark that rots in my heart!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.| Original: |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1927. The author died in 1938, so this work is also in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 years or less. This work may also be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. |
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