Aurelio Arturo

This green poem, leaf by leaf,
is rocked by the fertile, southwest wind;
this poem is a country that dreams,
a cloud of light and a breeze of green leaves.
...

Because the thirst had wounded everything,
all beings, every land of men . . .
And never again would the rain return
...

The night is very busy
rocking one by one,
so many leaves.
And the leaves don't fall asleep,
...

it happens like this
the rain
a calm counting of syllables begins
in the pretty clearings of the forest
...

Heads of hair and confused dreams
cover the bodies like muffled mosses
in the night, in the embroidering shade
of deep velvets and oblivion.
...

They were the leaves, the murmuring leaves,
the freshness, the countless glowing.
They were the green leaves - the living cell,
the imperishable instant of the landscape -
the green leaves that bring near, in their murmuring,
the sonorous distances like rigging,
the fine, the naked, oscillating leaves.

The leaves and the wind.
Leaves that waved with marine rhythm,
leaves with pure voices
speaking at the same time, and they were not
so many but a single one, palpitating
in a thousand mirrors of air, an endless
humid leaf in all the lights,
queen of the horizon, agile,
jumping little bird, pecking through all
the circles of the horizon, the sparkling circles.

The leaves, the flocks of leaves,
on the brink of the blue, on the brink of flying.

They were the leaves and the murmuring distances,
the leaves and the distances full of languages,
the distances that the wind strums as strings:
oh the stave, the stave of distances
where the leaves are notes played by the wind.

In the leaves beautiful countries and their clouds rustled.
In the leaves murmured distances of remote countries,
they rustled like rains of joyful green,
they laughed, laughed the rains of perfectly clear languages
like waters, fairies' cheerful languages, vowels of joy.

And the distances had rustles of successive fronds,
the distances heard, heard rains that tell legends,
they heard ancient rains. And the wind
carried the distances as it carries a leaf.
...

A woman sang, she sang
feeling herself alone in the night,
in the night, velvety valley.
...

And this is the song of one summer
among many beautiful summers,
when the dust rises and dances
and the sky is a blue, distant foliage.
...

The word surrounds us
we hear it
we touch it
its aroma surrounds us
...

In the balmy night, in the night,
when the leaves rise until they are the stars,
I hear the women grow in the mauve penumbra
and the falling of the shade from their lids, drop by drop.
...