I don’t even know who this bitterness is for!

Oh Sun, you who are dying, take it away

and hang, like a bloody Crucifix,

my bohemian pain on their breast.

The valley is full of bitter gold;

and the journey is sad, is long.

Do you hear? A guitar scolds. Be quiet!

It is your race, the poor little old woman who,

on learning that you’re a guest and that they hate you,

picks at her face with its lilac-colored weal.

The valley is full of bitter gold,

and the drink is long … long …

The road shines blue; the river barks …

That forehead, sweaty and cold, bestial and deformed,

is bowed. The broken pommel of

a humanicidal sword falls!

And in the mummyesque valley of sacred gold,

an ember of sweat is extinguished with tears!

An odor of time lingers fertilized by verses,

for the shoots of consecrated marble that would inherit

the auriferous song

of the lark rotting in my heart!