The clouds carry confetti in their pockets

(I packed away in the wardrobe

the very smallest cloud,

the one with confetti in its pockets.

But alas! … moths never sleep.)

I.

to Anna Costa

Like a secret of green water

your two eyes have watched me.

Ah, mariner star—

ah, farewell—

star of the sea.

The sea keeps the heart of a star

in the chasm of your gaze.

Anna, Anna,

mariner—

sailor of the sea.

The bow of silence is drawn,

and, for an arrow, the star.

Ah, farewell,

mariner—

Anna of the sea.

Like a secret of green water

your two eyes have watched me.

IV.

Folk Song for Pepa

to Pepa Llopis

Oh what a shining face

my neighbor down the street;

like snow on the mountains

or the cherry tree blossom.

Like stems of sweet alyssum

that perish from too much sun.

No basket weaver could ever

make a palm gleam so bright,

my neighbor down the street!

Oh what a shining face

my neighbor down the street;

where morning dew rests

when the rooster crows.

True rose of the rose tree,

in the vines of your cheeks,

fireflies, frightened,

without a home, find shelter:

my neighbor down the street.

Oh what a shining face

my neighbor down the street;

without lamp or beacon

you would light up the coast.

Even if night’s shadows came

and took lodging in your eyes,

the moon would be full

in both of your cheeks:

my neighbor down the street.

Oh what a shining face

my neighbor down the street;

like a house encircled

by laurel branches.

By laurel branches,

fresh pennyroyal at the door,

dry lavender in the barn,

elderberry and water mint:

my neighbor down the street.

Oh what a shining face

my neighbor down the street;

like the sail of a sailing ship

between rain and a wave.

Like brightness hiding

in good wine in a cellar

and in the old heart of the street

in Genoa where you stay.

My neighbor down the street,

oh, what a shining face!

V.

Song of the Rain

If the sun hides its face

we’ll be soaked tomorrow.

Just as the rain rouses

the rooster in the belfry

the cats will slink away

through their cat doors

and we’ll head outside,

but through the bigger door.

The white doves of the wash

will flee from the roofs.

Snails and slugs

will keep us company.

We’ll bring galoshes

and a broken umbrella

and a hooded raincoat

poorly done up, with a bag,

and the desire to run,

and unfamiliar joy.

At every single puddle,

we’ll stamp our feet so hard

that we’ll splash all the little

owls in the neighborhood.

We’ll shake all the plants

in the gardens and the yards

and the trees in the plaza

and the flowers on the porches

and we’ll stop to feel

rain on our cheeks.

We’ll take a shower

in every gutter

launching little boats

in every ditch.

If the scorpion shows up

with its crooked stinger

we’ll know a magician

who can make it dance for us.

Dance and dance

today and tomorrow,

until sun returns

in its wide-brimmed hat

and puts away the rain

on a high shelf.

VIII.

Song for the Road 

for Marina

Do you want to come on my boat?

—There are violets, in profusion!

We’ll travel far without regretting

whatever we leave behind.

We’ll go far without regretting

—and we will be two, we will be three.

Come, come to our boat,

the sails are raised, the sky open.

There will be oars for every arm

—and we will be four, we will be five!—

and our eyes, nomadic stars,

will forget all boundaries.

We set sail with the March winds

and clouds of restless spirit.

Yes, we will be twenty, we will be forty—

flying the moon for our flag.

Witches of yesterday—witches of today,

we will find ourselves on the open sea.

We will spread life everywhere

like a flowering dance.

In the skin of the salted wave

we will be five hundred, we will be a thousand.

We will lose ourselves in wandering.

Together we will make the night our own.