La Tristecita

Blood of the ceibo tree
that turns into a flower:
I don't know why
today your love sign
hurts me more.

Zamba, I want to hear
at dusk:
a bud of light,
wanting to be the sun
but can't be.

Oh, little sadness,
little sadness all the same,
like blue drizzle
whispering
to the sugar cane!

The wind brings it,
the sun takes it away:
dream in the wheat field
and over the willow grove,
lament of love.

I already feel
its voice coming from the hill:
it must be a handkerchief
and I will pin it
over my heart.