Wind returns to this small court
as lichens turn green.
Her eyes and the willow leaves
make a sequence in spring.
Leaning against the balustrade
she remains long in silence.
The new moon and the crackers
are tediously the same as in the past.
The feast and the music have not yet ceased.
In the pond, ice is beginning to melt.
In the bright candlelight and the faint scent,
and deeply hidden in this painted room,
My temples, overladen with thoughts,
are white like frost.
Sparrows in eaves,
mice in ceiling –
When Preciosa beats her tambourine
and the sweet music wounds the empty air,
it is pearls that drop from her hands,
flowers that she sends from her mouth.
The soul is wonderstruck and the judgement amazed
by her sweet and superhuman movements;
for their purity, their frankness and their modesty
her fame soars up till it touches the sky.
She carries a thousand souls
hanging on her lightest hair, and at her feet
Love has surrendered both his arrows.
She blinds and sheds light with her two suns;
by them Love maintains his empire, and thinks
himself capable of performing even greater prodigies.
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
He was walking a frozen road
in his pocket iron keys were jingling
and with his pointed shoe absentmindedly
he kicked the cylinder
of an old can
which for a few seconds rolled its cold emptiness
wobbled for a while and stopped
under a sky studded with stars.