Route of Blood to the Wind (Ruta de sangre al viento)

When daises no longer cradle you
because they follow me,

when you ask the wind for my name,
and the wind has forgotten even my echo,

when I shall be pretty clouds crossing your memory,
with what love will you care for the souls of my verse?

With the bird-love that followed my mornings,
when I found my warble rolling in your flight?

With the water-love that displaced my anguish,
when my timid waves plowed your sleep?

With the quiet love of rapture and ecstasy
with which you loved my wandering dreams in the night?

With the sprout-love that defied currents,
and plunged me on the winged peaks by the sky?

With the small love, careless and absent
with which you loved my childish tender games?

With what love will your hands take blandly,
the small still body of your sad memory?

Will you speak of my face
to the silent verses?

Will you tell them you saw me opening life to them
over a bad of waves and fantastic oars?

Will you show them the trail of birds and warbles
that with me in their wings, flooded your breast?

Will you water their yearning to kiss my eyes,
with the image of laughter in my last illusion?

Will you hide the history
that downed my sailboat?

Or will you take their souls to a tomb of clouds
that came and left with me?

If your eyes stay to spy on me in the summits!
With what love, my love, will you care for me verse?

~Julia de Burgos