La Chola

I want to go back to where La Chola is,
spend the sleepless night with my grandfather,
search in the cornizuelo's chutil
for the horned ant, the lonely Indian,
and walk on the transparent stone
set in the green, like an eye,
and see the thistles turning yellow
on the incandescent hilltop,
and admire Centeno's whiskers,
which are said to be squirrel tails,
and wait for death curled up
drinking black drops of dew,
and sow myself again among ocarinas,
when the bugle sounds, with Etelvina.