Cruz de Palo

Close to the stream
Kissed by the willows
And filled with flowers
Of grass and light
Without letters, ribbons
Or carved names
Two wooden sticks
Rise next to a willow
A grave
Still surrounded by thistles
Could not fence it
And where the hoot
Of some owl
Is heard ominously
On the summit
Of that old cross

The willow weeps for it
An Ave Maria
The oxherd with each
Whistle he gives
Perhaps wants to
Say a blessed prayer
Along with the complaints
That the mockingbird sings
The oldest ones say
Crossing themselves
That passing by at night
Through that place
They hear the complaints
Of the nightjars
In such a fierce way
That it even makes them cry

And on bad nights
When the wind blows
Its vague lament
Through the willow grove
By the wooden cross
A light walks
That runs and flies
Through the grassland
On a day of the dead
From several years ago
A girl approached
Next to the cross
Her head wrapped
In a black shawl
Her tearful eyes
Sad and without light
How cold, damn
The dead must feel
For that girl
Knelt before them
Cried as much as she wanted
Kissed the grave
Said: See you soon
But she never returned