To The Rio de Cosamaloapa

by

Manuel Carpio



Rash and abundant river

that waters the meadows of my people,

who could cry on your banks

to the round moon's cold rays!


At night in my agitated delirium

I seem to be gazing upon your palms,

your orange blossoms and vines,

and your dew-covered lilies.


Who would give just one look

at the sweet and modest house of mine,

where I was born, like a bird in the bower!


But your waves rolled on that day

over the ruins, oh, of that abode,

where I lived happily in my childhood.



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