Romance a Una Tejedora Manabita

With a mold of hope
And fingers like sweet clover
She weaves her hat
The prettiest Manabita

How fine are the threads
So delicate like her own self
Oh, to be Horacio Hidrovo
Or the hive of her poetry

To sing to you in scents
A song of toquilla
Tell me, lovely Manabita
Is it true that in your watchful nights

You weave with thin waters
Or crystallize in diamonds
That hat so light
That more than a hat, it’s a breeze

Or is it that your petal-like fingers
Of roses, nard, and lilies
Are weaving a hat
With rays of Indian moonlight

Tell me why, performing miracles
Your eyes still don’t see me
In an altar of tamarinds
Among gold, incense, and myrrh

Or is it perhaps to steal
From the creator his wonders
With which he wove the stars
From the altars they take you away

And they imprison you jealously
The bars of Eucharist
But no!... Keep silent
Don’t tell me your secrets

Keep on with your mold of hope
Weaving dreams of syrup
And whispering to quiet lips
Prayers of ambrosia

Weave, weave, oh weaver
With fingers like sweet clover
Weave, oh weaver
And tie my verses to your toquilla