To my little girl, Melba

 

by

 

Felipe Maximiliano Chacón

 

           

     It was an autumn night,

When I with grief and care

Saw an icy wind

Rumple a tender sprout.

 

    Sprout that was born

In the garden of my love,

As pure as the flower

From which it had grown,

 

     It lived only a few days

In this valley of mournings,

When to the blessed heavens

It spread its white wings.

 

     Today his cinder rests

At the base of a sad forest,

But the soul of my Melba

Is a glorious star;

 

     I was not where I belonged

When this life swung to and fro,

Because an angel doesn’t do well

In the temporal life.  

 

 

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