Epitafio En Son de Pasillo

Standing in front of my tomb you see
like the angel that was always there
crying with the rain, month by month,
preparing this bed for me,

night after night, on your knees, every flower
fertilizing the pale garden
where, trembling, my soul without warmth
awakens among jasmines every April

By the grace of your hands and your feet,
your eyes and knees, I became
an inhabitant of the air next to you.

Although I am nothing now, as you see,
I am dust because I was always dust,
but the dust I am smells like jasmine.