You who listen to the heart of night,
you who in persistent insomnia have heard
the closing of a door, the rumble of a carriage
far away, a vague echo, a slight noise...
In the moments of mysterious silence,
when the forgotten rise from their bonds,
at the hour of the dead, at the hour of rest,
you will know how to read these verses impregnated with bitterness!
I pour into them as into a cup my griefs
for faraway memories and sinister disasters,
and the sad yearnings of my soul, drunk with flowers,
and the sorrow of my heart, tired of fiestas.
And repentance for not being what I might have been,
the loss of the kingdom which was meant for me,
and the thought that at one moment I might have avoided being born,
and the dream that my life has been ever since I was born!
All this comes in the midst of the deep silence
in which the night wraps the illusion of earth,
and I seem to hear an echo from the heart of the world
that pierces and moves my own.