An Other April
Like a secret water that, far from the roads,
to any gesture of Narcís will not act as a sepulchre,
useless to the conreus, to the keys, to the gardens,
opposing to the light that she does not carry inside
around a silent and neat sheet,
is my sadness. Ample mirall fidel
through which the world shines with less weight than a shadows
between me and that other great parallel viewpoint
of the sky, where they destroy, each one a yearning,
the birds, the birds - the nameless souls.
Like a secret water changes its color
with the reflection that the aura gives to the passing instant:
blava, els matins d'hivern, de glaç en fusió;
dark and full of dreams on late afternoons,
and the migdies of summer, full and lassoed;
now, in the spring, when winter is blue,
there is a light equal to the landscape in it.
The golden moons know secrets of peace,
and the capaltard arrives with a blue so soft
that each tear was the image of a star
in a secret water. A torb, but only,
would faria buida i orba la seva pregonesa
tèrbola, sota cels terribles i propers...
April that makes the roses and weepers bloom,
give clear days to my sadness!
April of 1938