Over the bitter earth


Antonio Machado

Over the bitter earth,

sleep has roads that are

labyrinthine; tortuous paths,

parks in flower and in shade and in silence;

deep crypts, ladders to the stars;

puppet plays of hopes and memories.

Little figures pass and smile—

the melancholy playthings of the old—

friendly forms

at the flowery turn of the path,

and rosy visions

which point the road...in the distance...

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