La Mano de Mi Rumor

It can't be that I leave completely when
I die,
that not even the waiting remains behind the voice
that falls silent.

It can't be that there are only cycles of shadow
and forgetfulness
in this overwhelming love that rises up
in my chest,
if even in the broken trill the mourning
of the nest survives.

I put my childhood into songs and feel that
it lights up
a swallows' siesta full of ripe peaches.
I celebrate the seasons, I cry for their fleetingness.
And as I drown in mercy the shroud of its glory,
remnants of eternity grow in my memory.

When I'm gone, when the slight jolt
that commands me
is transformed into commemorated sand time,
in the snow;
when the liturgy of the flower drinks from my veins,

maybe some farmer tired of early mornings
will feel in his plowed hands the hand of my
whisper.