What is she doing now, my andean, sweet
Rita of the wild rushes and the wild grape;
now that Byzantium suffocates me, and my blood drowses,
like weak cognac, within me.

Where are her hands that used to contritely iron
in the afternoons, those whitenesses of the hereafter;
now, in this rain that takes away even
my desire to live.

What has become of her flannel skirt; of her
worries; of her way
of walking; of her savoring the sugar cane brandies of May.

She must be at the door watching some sign in the sky,
and finally, she´ll say trembling…”Jesus, it´s cold!”
And in the roof´s thatched canes, a wild bird will cry.

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