Flesh of the Sea



In a few brief days it will be Autumn in Virginia,
When the hunters, with a glance of rain,
Return to their native earth, the tree that doesn’t forget,
Lambs of an awful appearance,
In a few brief days it will be Autumn in Virginia.

If, bodies narrowly entangled,
Lips in the most intimate key,
Who will tell him, skin made of shipwrecks
Or the pain of the closed door,
Pain facing pain,
Without awaiting love at all?

Love comes and goes, look;
Love comes and goes,
Without giving alms to mutilated clouds,
From clothes, rags of the earth,
And he doesn’t know, he will never know.

It’s useless now passing a hand over Autumn.

Luis Cernuda