Spanish 

Vagos preludios. En la noche espléndida 
Su voz de perlas una fuente calla, 
Cuelgan las brisas sus celestes pifanos 
En el follaje. Las cabezas pardas 
De los búhos acechan. 
Las flores se abren más, como asombradas. 
Los cisnes de marfil tienden los cuellos 
En las lagunas pálidas. 
Selene mira del azul. Las frondas 
Tiemblan... y todo! hasta el silencio, calla... 

Es que ella pasa con su boca triste 
Y el gran misterio de sus ojos de ámbar, 
A través de la noche, hacia el olvido, 
Como una estrella fugitiva y blanca. 
Como una destronada reina exótica 
De bellos gestos y palabras raras. 

Horizontes violados sus ojeras 
Dentro sus ojos?dos estrellas de ámbar? 
Se abren cansados y húmedos y tristes 
Como llagas de luz que quejaran. 

Es un dolor que vive y que no espera, 
Es una aurora gris que se levanta 
Del gran lecho de sombras de la noche, 
Cansada ya, sin esplendor, sin ansias 
Y sus canciones son como hadas tristes 
Alhajadas de lágrimas... 

 English 

Murmuring preludes. On this resplendent night 
Her pearled voice quiets a fountain. 
The breezes hang their celestial fifes 
In the foliage. The gray heads 
Of the owls keep watch. 
Flowers open themselves, as if surprised. 
Ivory swans extend their necks 
In the pallid lakes. 
Selene watches from the blue. Fronds 
Tremble...and everything! Even the silence, quiets. 

She wanders with her sad mouth 
And the grand mystery of amber eyes, 
Across the night, toward forgetfulness 
Like a star, fugitive and white. 
Like a dethroned exotic queen 
With comely gestures and rare utterings. 

Her undereyes are violated horizons 
And her irises?two stars of amber? 
Open wet and weary and sad 
Like ulcers of light that weep. 

She is a grief which thrives and does not hope, 
She is a gray aurora rising 
From the shadowy bed of night, 
Exhausted, without splendor, without anxiousness. 
And her songs are like dolorous fairies 
Jeweled in teardrops... 

 The strings of lyres 
 Are the souls' fibers.? 

The blood of bitter vineyards, noble vineyards, 
In goblets of regal beauty, rises 
To her marble hands, to lips carved 
Like the blazon of a great lineage. 

Strange Princes of Fantasy! They 
Have seen her languid head, once erect, 
And heard her laugh, for her eyes 
Tremble with the flower of aristocracies! 

And her soul clean as fire, like a star, 
Burns in those pupils of amber. 
But with a mere glance, scarcely an intimacy, 
Perhaps the echo of a profane voice, 
This white and pristine soul shrinks 
Like a luminous flower, folding herself up!