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.