Mis Canciones

In an old corner, behind that gate is my house;
and you will see a garden, a well, and a rosebush
and some white roses;
and the stone path, the terrace of stone.
Crossing the threshold, you are in your home.

My songs
sprout from the earth
like the green pine, like the white wheat.
My songs sometimes lament the struggle of man.

Plucking the flower of my best verse for you;
I work in a corner and feel happy
if I find the word,
to tell you everything I want and am allowed;
even though you all know what silence holds.