Tenías un rebozo en que lo blanco iba sobre lo gris con gentileza para hacer a los ojos que te amaban un festejo de nieve en la maleza. Del rebozo en la seda me anegaba con fé, como en un golfo intenso y puro, a oler abiertas rosas del presente y hermético botones del futuro. (En abono de mi sinceridad séame permitido un alegato: entonces era yo seminarista sin Baudelaire, sin rima y sin olfato). Guardas, flor del terruño aquel rebozo de maleza y de nieve, en cuya seda me dormí aspirando la quinta esencia de tu espalda leve?

You had a silk shawl of two colors, White on gray, such elegant layers As to make for the eyes that loved you A spreading of snow over briars. In the silk of the shawl I was drowning, In faith, as in gulfs pure and deep: Scent of roses full–blown, in the present; Sealed buds of the future, asleep. Let me enter this plea as an earnest, For it’s truth I desire to tell: In the school for priests, we were lacking Baudelaire, rhyme, sense of smell. Do you keep it, dear flower of my country, That shawl of briars and snow? Asleep on those silks I was breathing Your neck’s quintessence of dew!