SHE Poem by Fernando Denis

Acecha en los crepúsculos de Turner…
J.L. Borges
The red centaur of the golden horns grows,
Bloody clouds burn the copper massif.

The sea smothers the interminable dream, it wounds the flood
With wicked splendors.

The sunset already asserts itself, like a miracle, and weakens
The solitude of postcards.
The savage wing among the branches
Stops its flight with wild violets,
Then the distant pupil of the eye attempts its return.
Incessant in the secret words that time
Will engrave on the stone or on the snow,
The sunset is a god of gold in a dark world,
I open my eyes and the desert roars
From its magnificent sands.
I am not the sunset, but its splendor is in me.

On the gray grass gigantic towers rise,
The sea lights up its stained-glass windows.
On the burning walls the color of my eyes ascends,
The horizon trembles on the yellow marble like the locks
Of a woman,
It mists up with splendor the mirrors and the sturdy
Trees with their ancient songs in their branches.
Who can be more happy at this time when the sky sleeps
And dreams about magicians and tales of miracles?

From the ashes of the afternoon tigers are reborn
That die when night comes, their eyes fixed on the sea.
Look at the landscape where one day you'll die,
Under this glare of a hundred swords you will find
The last face,
The terrible colors, the infinite beauty of the dreams
Of those who do not dream, dispersed on the beaches,
And you will see my lit-up face
And you will love my music,
And you will put this flower of fire on your breast.

Mortal lips will say your name with brilliance
In the words, William Turner.