The old boat

Under bright fog,

of covered sea anemones,
it dawned at the beach,
an old boat.

With sand, one looks

the band of his boatmen,
and in the greenish keel
sealings.

Sad boat, lying down,

by the drilled mollusks;
has come from unknowns
bitter springs.

He/She appeared in the mist

and in the harmony of the dawn;
brought from the breakers
golden shells.

To those rowing banks,

to the yellowish ropes,
the cormorants are coming
and the seagulls.

The picturesque children,

when the tide dozes
they fill it with ropes
and of flags.

The couple, in the afternoon,

they lean on their high keel;
and to the sea winds,
they kiss out of love.

But the derelict boat

from the sands of the estuary,
longs for the distant
golden springs.
And in the deep night,
in fine polished tumbler,
the dying boat set off
to the distant ports.

The horse

He/She comes through the streets,

to the small moon,

a dead horse
in an ancient battle.

Their gloomy helmets...

trembles, slips;
let out a hoarse neigh
with their distant voices.

In the leaden corner

from the barricade,
with empty eyes
and with horror, it stops.

Later they are heard

his slow footsteps,
through deserted paths
and through ruinous squares.
The closed room

My eyes have seen

the closed room;
what immovable lips your door...
it's muted!
Its oblong window, like an open eye,
glassy looks at me;
like a sad eye,
with a gaze that never pulls away
like a dead eye.
They come out through the crack

the emanations
cold and morbid;
Oh, the dampness, how heavy it feels
flow to the sidewalk
like tears,
the closed room would have a well!
The fatal facts
hides us in its cold rest...
silenced room!
dark room
with its sorrows it will have turned to dusk
how many youths!
Oh, how many beauties it must have released!
How many agonies!
how many coffins!
The years followed their path,
the days;
gallant deceits
and pleasures...
in the fatal room, frozen,
everything has ended;
today their shadows oppress the soul:
and it's like a crime
the closed room!
The pain of the night

When the late night trembles

in the sandy areas and the black fields,
there are distant, mournful voices heard,
behind the hills.
It is the song of the lost forest,
with the old range of wild notes,
or the moan of the unknown turbon,
through valleys and shadows!
Oh the distant roar of the beasts
that in the brown pampas
and in the hills and fallow fields
send the man their night wrath!
The choir that rises remote to the heavens
it will be the red word of death
or the clamor of the shining city
What sinks, goes out!
Oh, how sad the rondo is
the dormant slopes surround:
the cry of hatred will be from the mountains,
It will be from the graves!
When the upright jokes darken
in the sand dunes and the black fields,
how the pain of the night sounds
behind the hills!

The domino

They lit the lamps on the table,

the washbasins moved by themselves,
and an empty but lively domino,
while the fair laughs down the street,
sits, illuminated,
and the dinner begins.

Its clear mask of a cold yellow.

give the frights in the dark surroundings
this night of unfathomable wonders,
and tends vague, light-avoiding signs
the glasses, the chairs
of absent diners.

And then in horror that pearlescent floats,

through the high night of unknown pleasure,
in the light forgets golden delicacies,
purrs a guilty prayer, full
of desolate accents
and leaves the dinner.

The pond

The green pond of the estate,

king of the kindly garden,
is in oblivion
miserable!
In the distant, beautiful hours
they were their singing lymphs,
they were garnets and auroras,
to bellflowers and jasmines
they ban mandarins insects
with purple little lamps,
singing insects
with the colored music;
but, from the garden, in the beauty
always dark sorrow:
like the impenetrable night,
like the miserable ruin.
Vesper trembled in the skies,
parallel owls were moaning
and, in the afternoon, the trellis
had old golden light;
it was the saddened hour
like a plant wounded by snow;
like the agonizing insect
about dry leaves navigator.
Clara, the noisy girl,
ran to bathe in mulberry sap,
to go to the party later
from the neighboring property;
the orchestra was reaching his ear
of violin, piano and ocarina.
It shone for a moment, orange,
in the perfumed shadow,
with the first feelings
of orchestrations gala.
Oh! in the deadly and deep lymph
the blonde virgin went to take a shower;
of the ignited loves,
the gaze full of life...
The green pond of the estate,
king of the friendly garden,
today's collapse
miserable!

The Lady I

The lady and, wandering

in the fog of the lake,
sing the fine verses.

He/She goes in his/her enchanted gondola

from paper, to the mass
morning green.

And on its path, it is picking up

the dormant umbels
and the dead papyri.

The blonde dreams of aroma

wake up gently
their sardana on the leaves.
And the sweet part, asleep,
to the blurred church
of the yellow light.

The ivory death

I contemplated in the morning,

the tomb of a girl;
in the weeping willow the tramontana moaned,
devastating the pleasant, shining countryside.
From the cold tumulus, of green cavities,
the thought flew
toward the golden maiden, beautiful from other ages,
tight with happiness.
Upon seeing dark flowers,
purple dragonflies, next to the open slab,
I thought of the clear garden, in the garden of loves,
from the beauty awakens.
Like a shadowy cloud, upon seeing the strange tomb,
of a lifeless flow in the sand and the ice,
I thought of the blonde dawn of youth that I would love.
the girl, flower of the sky.
By the weeping willow, lilial music of her,
modulates the aura alone in the pantheon of oblivion.
She died singing and beautiful;
and their remains are white like polished ivory.
The girl of the blue lamp

In the foggy passage

what a magical dream of Istanbul,
your profile is dazzling
the girl with the blue lamp.

Nimble and smiling, she suggests,

and its seductive flame shines,
the drizzle trembles in her hair
from the beach of wonder.

With a childlike and melodious voice

in fresh birch aroma,
talks about a miraculous life
the girl of the blue lamp.

With warm eyes of sweetness

and morning love kisses,
the beautiful creature offers me
a magical and celestial path.

Of enchantment in a waste,
hiende leda, vaporous tul;
and guides me through the night
the girl of the blue lamp.

The pensive one

In the autumn gardens,

under virginal palms,
I watched the young and elusive one pass by.
the Pensativa.

I saw her in blue in the morning,

With her gaze so far away;
That was lost in the mystery
From the blurry sky.

I saw her in pink railings

Where she displayed her finery;
And her beautiful evening face
It was a sorrow in the fog...

Then she walked silently.

In the glowing twilight;
And a sad pride ignited her,
What would they think?

Oh her pearly complexion

With innocence and sin!
Oh, their wandering gazes
of the dying plains!

She was an enchanting beauty;

It was the pain that never cries;
Without virtue and irony
What would I feel?

In the serene dawn,

I saw her return scared,
Westward, silent, elusive
The Thoughtful!

The sword round

Through the avenues

of fear surrounded,
shines in the night of dark blues,
the round of swords.

The shutters are sleeping,

the old knockers;
and the blurry sounds of dogs are heard
the fierce music.

Already the outside

and the ruined ones
narrow streets, it has passed vibrantly
the sword circle.

And in the coffee shops

that the smoke shrouds,
Upon feeling her, the gambler of the night,
close the deck.

Through the avenues

mournful, carved,
comes slow, sonorous, growing
the round of swords.

Behind the grilles,

the ladies are waiting,
paladins who bring love
the tips of flames.

Under the balconies

they are delighted,
it stops with a sudden noise
the round of swords.

Very sad night

of strange clouds:
jay, the shining steel blades
they take sickles!

Very sad night

of the enchanted!

The blood

The wilted pilgrim

he saw a bloodstain in the mountain:
he continues thoughtful
in the clear memories of his afternoon.

The sad, step by step,

the sheep in the city, asleep, white,
next to the gallows,
and dying from blind watchtowers.

The curved pilgrim

transits through adoring forests
and the cursed kingdoms,
and always look at the red signals.

The towers

Distant browns...;
the towers battle
presenting
huge silhouettes.

Distant golds...;
the monarch towers
they are confused
in their wrath flames.

Distant reds...;
the towers are injured;
purplers
Their cries can be heard.

Distant blacks...;
Cinderella hours
they darken
Oh, the dead towers!
Song I

It was dawn,
when the drops of blood on the elm
they exhaled a very sad light.

The loves
from the Chinese late afternoon they perished
cloudy in the blue music.

Pink vacancies
they hide in a whitish dream
signs of dying pain.

And your eyes

the ghost of the night they forgot,
open to the young song.

It is dawn;
there is a crimson blood in the elm
and a painful resentment in the garden.

Give me the forest,

and in the haze there are unknown faces
that contemplate the tree dying.

Song III
On the Costa Brava
The bell rings,
Calling the ancients
Submerged wetlands.
And like a blue sieve
And the ice luminary,
They sadly pass
The dead bushes.
Worm-eaten, yellow,
They are approaching, coming down...
And by the lights they leave
Dark trails.
With its uncertain language,
It seems that they are sobbing,
To the voice of winter,
Preferred history.
On the Costa Brava
The bell rings
And the ships turn
To the pantheon of the seas.

Song IV

The night was passing,

and to the terror of the nebulae, their eyes
Ineffables laughed with sadness.

The mute word

in the guilty mansion it could be seen,
like the sentence of the ancient God.

The disastrous lack

they discovered the dogs, sniffing
in the wind the shadow of the dead.
The beautiful one was singing,
and the rapier fell asleep in the armory
bleeding the mercy of innocence.

Song V

The song of the sleepy sky

He left sweet sorrows;
I would like to bring that song to life.
What has so much of you.

The evening has fallen over the moss

from the English siege,
with an air of another musical time.

The murmur of the last party

has left sad and soft colors
which of dark springs
and perlin strips.

And the wounded notes

they have brought melancholy
of the gallant shadows
to say their goodbyes on the beach.

The celestial nature of your sweet eyes

has a sorrow of song,
that the soul will never forget.

The angel of dreams has kissed you

to leave you love, felt and musical
and whose sounds of sadness
they reach my soul,
like celestial gazes
in this fog of deep loneliness.

It is the symbolic song

like a dream jasmine,
That I had your eyes and your heart!
I would like to bring this song to life!

The quiet angels

The storm has passed; now,

with pearls and beryls,
they sing the solitude dawn
the quiet angels.

Modulate holy songs

in sweet bandolins;
seeing the fallen leafy plants
of fields and gardens.

While the sun is in the fog

vibrate your ornaments,
white death powder
in the cruel Saharas.

They depart in the early morning,

with pearls and beryls,
and with the light of the sky in the gaze
the quiet angels.
The dolphins

It is the night of sad remembrance;

in a large square hall,
of illuminated yellow,
at the time of matins
the distressing contradance begins
of the deceased dolphins.
They have rich medallions
velvets and ribbons;
for nobility, for smoothness
which of Van Dyck's paintings;
but they retain an outline,
a flame of sadness
like the cousin, like the last sob.
The agony is profound.
of its eternal symmetry;
now they advance in the leaks and measures
like tenacious pendulums
of the last joy.
An unnamed knowledge,
destroyer of childhood,
suffering makes them, suffering for sin
of native elegance.
and for mysterious purposes,
inside the hall of nocturnal misfortune,
the dolphins become alienated
in her taciturn dance.

The dead

The dead snowy mountains,

under a sad sky,
they walk down the avenue
suffering that never ends.
They go with gloomy forms
among the silent auras:
and from death comes the cold
to sauces and lilies.

White lights shine slowly

through the desolate path;
and they long for the celebrations of the day

and the loves of life.

As they walk, the dead one

hope they seek:
and they only see the scythe,
the sad, self-absorbed shadow.

On a barren night of mists

and in the sorrow and the fear,
from the distant walkers
through the endless avenue.

The red kings

Since dawn
two red kings fight,
with a golden spear.

Through green forest

and on the purple hills
He/she furrows his/her brow.

Kings Falcons
they battle in faraway places
of blue gold.

By the cadmium light

irons look small
its black shapes.
The night is coming
and firm ones fight dark ones
the red kings.

Funeral march of a marionette

The trumpets of the infant sound with a sharp melody...

the show business has arrived of Queen Fantasy;
and in the autumn lights the mourning woman rises
the front carriage.
Then they pass by, quietly, pilgrims and lackeys.
and with their shells the headless horses;
go in blue melancholy
the doll. Don't make noise!
it would be said, it would be said
that the poor thing has fallen asleep.
They come swollen and upright, Burgundian palace figures.
and the harlequins follow them in tight pants.
It is monotonous in the bunk bed
to the wooden queen;
and Paquita feels a longing to laugh and to dance,
The brief cadence of melancholy and longing floated.
the country flute sounds with the airs of the dance.
Poor, poor marionette that they are going to bury!
With silent poetry
goes a grotesque King of Hungary
and the Alans follow them;
so the whole pack
with the old courtiers.
And in sorrow at the distance
childhood joys take flight,
the budding loves, those that will never last.
Poor little doll that they are going to bury!
Melancholic, a little whistle lingers in the morning.
the twilight spreads over the hill and the plain,
delicious marionette is going to arrive early
the fierce music.

Already the outside

and the ruined ones
narrow streets, it has passed vibrantly
the sword circle.

And in the coffee shops

that the smoke shrouds,
Upon feeling her, the gambler of the night,
close the deck.

Through the avenues

mournful, carved,
comes slow, sonorous, growing
the round of swords.

Behind the grilles,

the ladies are waiting,
paladins who bring love
the tips of flames.

Under the balconies

they are delighted,
it stops with a sudden noise
the round of swords.

Very sad night

of strange clouds:
jay, the shining steel blades
they take sickles!

Very sad night

of the enchanted!

The blood

The wilted pilgrim

Its unknown causes;
Thus it wraps with mystical fog
All the souls.
And things, men dominate
The brown lady,
Of the misty floating hair
And black crown.

Reverie

And I dreamed, from a small temple came down

two sweet morning beauties;
and I heard melancholic voices speaking
of the noble forest sayings.
I saw them in the coat of arms of the postern.
light blue and almost erased
I wake up years later, the cistern
they were gently rocked, half portrayed.
And finally I spotted them. Regrettable.
through the paths and through the clearings;
and they spoke the beautiful melodious ones;
but her words could not be heard.
Thus, her memory brought me
the clear ballads of Mendelssohn;
but even Beethoven did not possess
the very sad light of those faces.