A Un Olmo Seco

To the old elm, split by lightning and half rotten, with the April rains and the May sun, some green leaves have sprouted. The centenary elm on the hill... A yellowish moss licks its whitish bark on the worm-eaten and dusty trunk. Before the woodcutter knocks you down, elm of the Duero, with his axe, and the carpenter turns you into a bell clapper, a cart shaft or a cart yoke; before you burn red in the hearth tomorrow, in some wretched hut. Before the river pushes you to the sea through valleys and ravines, elm, I want to note in my notebook the grace of your greened branch. My heart also waits towards the light and towards life, another miracle of spring.