For new times

She explores me With silenced eyes
And exquisitely frustrated desires.
Her hand fills with snow;
It comes towards mine and the flood of hours ....
To my calmed soul,
As a splinter of wood gone to the fire,
Her’s the color of death, mallow.
Very well, the next hours will be very cold
Nothing else matters.
... Flower of time,
Though I cry because my hair
Is not as white as my years, yes,
I defy opinion,
Sheltered in the captivity of your hands.
Why does she laugh and not I?
If she lives in the god's body
With birds in her voices
Leaving him to speak to the wind always to the hair
Of those whom I love so much.
Like a song of the desert
She dries off in the sun,
and all the time that she still has,
She draws hearts on the window, uselessly,
Knowing that the almond-tree has already bloomed.

Traducción
Mark Leonard Melcher