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I want to tell you, dove,
All the pain that overwhelms me
In those long nights
When not even the evening star appears.
When the lantern on the hill
Is like an uncertain specter,
Silent stillness of the dead
Stung by the idea,
And the grass cradle pants
In the chest of the desert.

I want to tell you, my beloved
That the sun no longer shines,
That thyme doesn't perfume,
That the broom doesn't bloom,
That the wind doesn't say anything
Nor blows like other times,
Nor does the broom flower,
Nor does the tamarisk companion
Break under the trampling
Of the absence it suffers.

I want to tell you, my beloved
That nothing exists without you,
That the moon doesn't dress
In finery in your gaze;
That if you remain angry
Even the waterhole will dry up,
And even the lantern, when burning,
Will bleed a cold flame
Before one of my tears,
Ignited, spill.

I want to tell you, my dream
That even the ovenbird's nest is abandoned,
And if there's a bonfire in my soul
Your heart is the firewood.
My poor southern land
Is left without the flight
Of the birds that have gone
Without hearing your warble
I enter to look and I see
Nothing but goodbyes in the nests.