Desolation The thick, eternal mist is such that I forget where the sea in its salty waves has thrown me: The Earth to which I came does not have spring: it has a long night that as my mother hides me. The wind comes around my house with sobs and howls, and breaks my scream like a crystal. And in the white plain of an infinite horizon, I watch the sunset. Who can be called upon by that who has come here, if only the dead can travel farther than she? So alone they contemplate a still and quiet sea to fill their dear arms. The boats whose sails whiten the port come from a place that does not have those that are mine; they bring pale fruits; without the light of my orchards, these men of clear eyes do not know my rivers. And the question that rises to my throat when watching them descends upon me, is defeated: they speak strange languages that do not affect the reassuring language spoken in lands of gold in which my mother sings. I watch the snowfall like the dust in a grave; I watch the fog grow like one in agony, and, not to go crazy, because the "long night" is now just beginning. I watch the smooth plain and I gather its sorrow as I came to see the mortal landscapes. The snow is the symbol that peers through my window; always will it be at its height, lowering from the skies. Always she is there, quiet, like the great look of God on me; always its orange blossom over my house; always, as destiny which neither diminishes nor happens, she covers to me, terrible and giving ecstasy.