The Breeze


Manuel Acuña

To my dear friend J.C. Fernandez

Breath in the morning

what are you stealing on your flight

the essence, pure and early,

that the lush violet

dismisses the sky in vapor?

Tell me, breath of dawn,

inconstant and light breeze,

are you going by any chance at this time

to the valley that makes you fall in love

and which waits for you moaning?

Or do you go to the nests

of the singing goldfinches

that in the hidden thickets

await you half asleep

on their flower beds?

Or are you announcing perhaps

that you blow from the nascent sunrise,

murmuring along your passing,

that with the death of the setting sun

a child rises in the East?

Pick up your faint wings,

pure summer breeze,

that the perfumes you exhale

you steal among the finery

of the violets of the river.

Stop your fleeting career

over the smiling flowers

on the hill and the meadow,

and go lightly to wake up

the angel of my loves.

And tell her, scented breeze,

with your sonorous murmur,

that she is my golden illusion,

and that in my graven chest

how I adore my life.

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