The rose
Vicente Aleixandre (Sevilla, 1898-1984)
I know you're here in my hand
I have you, rose cold. Nude
weak beam of the sun reaches you. Smell,
emanate. From where,
transcript
ice cream today lie to me? "From a secret
realm of beauty, where your scent
scatter,
for total
invandir skies that blessed
your own air, fire, perfumes
breathe? Ah
only there
heavenly creatures you drunken!
But here are pink secret
cold, motionless, pale pink fine
pretend that this hand
your picture on the ground.
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