Todos Vuelven

Everyone returns to the land where they were born; to the incomparable enchantment of its sun. Everyone returns to the corner
where they came from: where perhaps more than one love flourished.

Under the solitary tree of the past, how many times do we
start to dream / everyone returns, along the path of
memory, but the time of love never returns.

The air, which carries in its hands the flower of the past,
and its aroma of yesterday, whispers softly in our ear
its learned song of the evening; it tells us, with a
mysterious voice of thistle and rose, of moon and honey,
that the love of the earth is sacred, that the absence
left by yesterday is sad.

Everyone returns.