Zamba de Un Triste

(Zamba)

At the singing of the cypress
in the burning afternoon,
coppery and blue,
the zamba will weep,
releasing into the air
doves of dream and light.

And my voice will emerge
alive in the wood
of my guitar,
hips of a woman
playing the wounded
exile of my solitude.

I die at dawn
alone,
sorrows of the cypress
whistling bagualas
I go to the center of the climate.

I will return, already a shadow,
to kiss the sweet
warmth of your skin.
Virgin bloom,
flesh of the jasmine,
freckles of dawn.

Solitude, of love,
what keeps me awake
the blood of love.
And to leave with the sun
shadow of the naked earth,
nocturnal and final.