The road here—
No traveler comes along
This autumn evening.
The sky dreams clouds for the real world
with matter enamored of light and space.
Today dunes scatter over a reef,
sands with marine waves that are snows.
So many chance crossings, by fanciful caprice,
there in plain view with an irresistible
smiling reality. I dwell on the edges
of solid transparent depths.
The air is enclosing, displaying, enhancing
the leaves on the branch, the branches on the trunk,
walls, eaves, corners, pillars:
Calm proof of the evening,
requiring a windows tranquil vision.
Details chime with their surroundings:
smooth pebbles, there a fence, then a wire.
Every minute finds its own aureole,
or is it fancy dreaming this glass?
I am like my window. I marvel at the air.
Beauty so limpid, now so in accord,
between the sun and the mind! There are polished words,
but I would like to know as the June air knows.
The poplars stirring makes a visible breeze,
in a circle of peace the evening encloses me,
and a soaring sky adapts to my horizon.
Jorge Guillén Álvarez
Each of us is alone on the heart of the earth
pierced by a ray of sun:
and suddenly it’s evening.
Black snow that dribbles from the roofs;
A blood-red finger dips into your brow,
Blue nerves sink into the barren chamber,
That are the lifeless mirrors of lovers.
The head breaks into weighty pieces and ponders
On shadows mirrored in blue nerves,
The frozen smile of a dead whore.
In sweet carnations weeps the evening breeze.
I had to do to it – suddenly, I had to sing,
I had no idea why –
But when the evening came I wept bitterly.
Pain was everywhere. Sprang out of everything –
Spread everywhere. Into everything –
And then lay on top of me.