Oswaldo


It happens that my soul quivers before your wavelike presence
So in evenings not like these evenings
My mature blossoms start budding . . .
It happens that towards you
Sweeping nostalgia transports me
So to your lantern-lit boulevards I rush
Seeking, amid daybreak variegations,
My grief-stricken voice . . .
When it laid for your veins’ itinerary,
Plans from erring poems
And moons