"Your Agony"

by

Horacio Quiroga


The evening was dying and in the wind

the silk of your voice was a piano,

And the condescension of your hand

was just mild discouragement.


And your fingers anointed a Christian

forgiveness, in a subtle sharpening;

the breeze sighed, as in the story

of a summer melancholy.


With your voice, on the fence of the fifth,

The paleness.of the succinct flower was stopped.

The afternoon, already dying, flowed out


onto your temple as the softest violet.

And on the smoothest quiet of the lake

the swans preluded your agony.



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