The Elements Of The Night


José Emilio Pacheco

Beneath this small, dry empire summer has whittled down,

faith lies toppled—all those tall, farsighted days.

In the last valley

destructiveness is glutted

on conquered cities, affronted by the ash.

Rain extinguishes

the woodland lit by lightning.

Night passes on its venom

Words crack against the air.

Nothing is restored, nothing gives back

that glowing green to the scorched fields.

Neither will the water, in its exile

from the fountain, succeed its own sweet

rise, nor the bones of the eagle fly

through its wings again.

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