Dulce Muchacha Triste

I remember her very well and not because on her lips
she carried cherries from the Jerte valleys
but because, you see, she had in her shoes
dust from all the roads.
I remember her very well only her gaze
was the place in the world where there was no Vietnam.
She traveled in her backpack a long journey
and a book of poems, look at that.
Sweet sad girl traveled roads
in search of a laugh to rest.
She had in her mind a city with water swings
and sand markets on the corners
"Long ago, I told her, that they cut off the man
an ancient custom of flying he had:
We will only be ourselves the day we manage
to see children born with wings"
She drew a blue boat on a yellow sea
and gave it to me hidden in a shell.
Then she left. I haven't been able to find her
anywhere in the air and on the earth.
I'm not sure what became of her. A friend told me
that she died when she found out life is not a rock.
Others assure me that she aged suddenly
and stopped to sleep by the side of a road.