A ROSA

Think of the children
Telepathic seedlings
Think of the girls
Cegas inexatas
Think of the women
Altered routes
Think of the wounds
As warm roses
But oh do not forget
The pink rose
The rose of Hiroshima
A rosa hereditária
A dew radioativa
Stupid and invalid
The rose with cirrhosis
The atomic anti-rose
Colorless unscented
No rose without anything.

Roses that desabrochais,
As first loves,
The soft flushes
breakfast;

In vain ostentais, in vain,
Your supreme grace;
Of little worth; It is the diadem
illusion.

In vain encheis aroma of the evening air;
In vain abris wet and fresh breast
The rising sun to the loving kisses;
In vain ornais the forehead to the sweet virgin;
In vain, as a pledge of pure affection,
As a souls link,
Passais lover within the bosom lover;
There beats the time unfortunate
Where strength is dying; the beautiful leaves
Lose the bloom of first morning,
The graces and perfume.
Roses then are ye? - Remains Lost,
Dead leaves that time forgets, and spreads
winter breeze or indifferent hand.

This is your destiny,
O daughters of nature;
In which you weigh the beauty,
Pereceis;
But, no… If the hand of a poet
cultivates you now, ó rosas,
more vivid, May jubilosas,
Floresceis.

Who knows melancholy rose
growing alone in the field ?
Who sees its thorns
sprout tattooing his flesh ?
Chance there amazement
when leafless rose moans ?
Who knows her dewy silence ?
Who fears to touch your skin with care
without the harshness of hands ?
Who ever heard of the beats
your heart ?
If Harpsichord quarreled with pink
in dismay
It was not the reason
of its fainting
Not the clove his tormentor
is who does not recognize his voice

A woman complained of silence lover:
– Already do not like me, because you do not find words to praise me!
Then he, pointing you the rose that died within him:
– Not be unreasonable to ask this rose to speak?
Do not you see that it gives in all its perfume?

See you in silk and nacre,
and as the trembling dew, I think you see, ephemeral,
Beauty all in tears
for being beautiful and being fragile.

I offer you my eyes:
mirror to face
we have, in my verse,
when, after it passes,
anyone ever forget you.

So, Silk and nacre,
all trembling dew, will be eternal. E efêmero
my face, nas Lágrimas
thy dew ... And fragile.