The distant vibration of melancholy cowbells

pours the rural

fragrance of their anguish into the air.

Onto the silent patio

the setting sun bleeds its farewell.

The autumnal amber of the panorama

takes on a cold hue of aching gray!

At the house’s front door

that time with its talons turns holey,

the sluggish silhouette of

a gold-colored ox

silently looms

and then passes into the nearby barn;

hearing cowbell prayers

he yearns with biblical pupils

for his virile bull years!

Onto the garden wall

an elegant cock leaps, fluttering

the pain of his song, and, in sad alarm,

like two teardrops,

his eyes tremble in the dead afternoon!

Languidly through

the decrepit village

rends a guitar’s sweet yaravi,

in whose eternity of deep affliction

the sad voice of an Indian dronedongs

like a big, old cemetery bell.

My elbows on the wall,

while a dark stain triumphs in the soul

and the wind sheds in motionless branches

tears of timid, uncertain quenas,

I sigh a torment,

on seeing how in the golden red penumbra

a tragic blue of dead idylls weeps!