History of A Thought
When the bird flies to its nest
To whom you gave shelter and friendship
It is only right that he directs his final song,
Before he leaves behind his sadness, to your hometown.
To the traveling bird that left its nest
You gave him a coat, calming his restlessness;
Oh! So many benefits, I will never forget it;
Durable as my life will be my gratitude.
In proof of it I leave you what I can allow you,
My verses, always sad, but I leave them like this;
Because I think, sometimes it's between your lines,
Because when I read them I think you remember me.
I am going to tell you a simple story,
That left a deep impression in my desolate soul;
They told me ... Where? ... my memory is fragile ...
Perhaps I was her hero ... or, I dreamed I was.
It was a beautiful rose, a brilliant vine,
So pure, so graceful, splendid and gentle,
That it was the finest ornament of the happy meadow,
The most valuable jewel of flourishing April.
At her feet grew a poor thought,
Small, lonely, without grace or color;
But he looked at the rose and breathed his breath.
And he conceived the deepest love for her.
Watching his mistress passing by night and day.
A thousand times, alas! he wanted to declare his pain;
But she was so far away, so far away;
He devoured his grief and sorrow alone.
Sometimes he would send her shy smells,
Thinking that he would reach his beloved flower;
But the breeze, swaying the flowers,
Took the pain of his love far away.
The poor thought poured out a thousand tears,
Tears of desolation, of aloe and of gall,
While the young rose, without seeing others, grew,
And the more she grew, the further she got away from him.
A jasmine arrives to them both in the beautiful meadow,
He too grew to the point that he saw her;
But he was happier, he could get to her,
He declared his pain, and at last the rose loved ...
Can you now understand the poor thought,
When seeing this comparison to his happy rival?
Don’t you understand his horrible, his barbaric torment
When you are condemned to such a fate?
They transplanted him; he lived in other meadows,
Pretending indifference, forgetfulness and even pleasure:
He looked at beautiful flowers, bright and sorcerous,
But his love was constant, and he never failed to compare them to her.
At last one morning, being very far away,
The Zephyr told him the jasmine's wedding;
He listened smiling, and blind and delirious,
Pretending insane pleasure, he thought he’d forgotten her at last.
But the next day they saw him in tears,
The flowers, and ignoring their hidden suffering,
"You cry, you think, you cry,” they said:
"It's nothing," he replied, "it's crying with pleasure."
See the simple story I’m trying to tell you?
Perhaps it makes you sad, but I leave it like this;
Goodbye, goodbye, I’ve already delivered it; I dare to ask you
That you read it alone and remember me.