Translated from Amharic by Ruth Ashinne '22.5
This poem is about paternal origins and identity.
An identity leaves a certain essence
Others have some existence, none yours
The labor to your worth, I am thankful
The thoughtfulness, thank you
The truth seeps deep-
I find glory in these roots
A scale will not measure how priceless
I will pay my dues even if a heart shatters
How do you describe a thought that doesn’t settle?
I rumble at explaining my heart as it dishevels
A father's love, what shall be its worth?
Through the dusk, my love prevails
Translated from Arabic by Luisa Suad Bocconcelli '21.5
I translated this poem from Arabic. This translation is part of a larger work of creative expression related to the poem, which will be a sort of video/multimedia project that will be released in the coming months.
I am an old-fashioned typewriter
abandoned and disabled
but still here for memories
fit for salon decorations from last century
and for expats and retired bourgeoisie
for deaf musicians
and blind painters
still visible here in cold iron and heavy weight
press my keys to hear the echoes of ghost steps in abandoned lobbies
traces of large businessmen’s steps over a hotel carpet
nervous dancers on wet ebony floors
workman’s shoes in the icy cold morning
robber's soundless footsteps
a crowd’s steps in a quiet demonstration at noontime
feet that dance ballet
and feet of fish in pools
a soldier’s shoes at the base of a castle
and a monk's sandals
press my thin rusty arms to hear whispers of nightmares
creaking chains of captives in mysterious hallways
earrings of an dead old man
a young man's skinny dip in a clear coral reef
and cracking of chewing gum
hammer and blacksmith’s forge
squeaking of prison cell doors
a sigh with which you blow out a prayer candle
lice biting the old prisoner's head.
crickets colliding with the street lamps
and the slow return of the coal train from the war
I'm the old dactylo machine that no matter how hard you press won't write anything to you today
but you'll touch and you'll hear and you'll see and you'll smell words
stories and lives
novels written by moonlight and candlelight and fires
intercontinental messages between lovers and soldiers and spies
transcripts by weary informants in isolated security compounds behind suburbs
and with the hands of undercover agents that were later cut off
and ragged dogs sleeping on sprawling blueprints
she sleeps and exhales
she sleeps and gets tired
she sleeps and coughs
she sleeps and sneezes
she sleeps and yawns
she sleeps and watches over
she sleeps and in her dreams she barks, hunting for fictitious thieves of the future
do you understand me?
I'm that junk machine in dreary sunday sales of antique shops
in Schaerbeek
and in Jeu de Balle
or in Matongé
a shiny machine in the light of tram #51’s lamp
and the glow of a cigarette.
made of unearthly metal
that machine still here waiting in vain
she sees and hears and feels
but she’s paralyzed
alive and paralyzed
unable to testify
in front of the world’s court
Translated from Slovak by Adam Furman '22
This short story is a classic of Slovak folk literature. A year or so ago, I became interested in researching and learning more abotu Slovak mythology and folk traditions, and wanted to share this tale with my friends. So, I made an informal translation while trying to capture the sentiment of the original. My parents are from Slovakia, and Slovak culture has been important to me throughout my life, and yet is very much unknown in the broader world. I hope that this translation does its own little part in fixing that.
One king had three daughters, whom he guarded closely as the eyes in his head. When his sinews began to weaken and his hair became flecked with white snow, it often came into his mind, which of his three daughters should be queen after his death. It was difficult for him to choose from among them, for all of them were adept and he loved them all equally. He called them before him and told them thus:
“My daughters, I am old, you see, and I do not know if I will be with you much longer. So, I want to determine which one of you will be queen after my death. Before, though, I would like to know, my girls, how much you love me. Say, eldest daughter, you first, how much do you love your father?”
“Oh, my father, you are more dear to me than gold!” replied the eldest daughter, and kissed her father’s hand.
“Well, then; and you, middle, how much do you love your father?”
“Oh, father dearest, I love you as much as my vestal innocence!” said the middle one and wound herself around her father’s neck.
“Well then; and you, youngest little daughter, how so do you love me?”
“I, daddy, love you like salt!” said Maruška and looked kindly at her father.
“Oh, you good-for-nothing, why you only think your father is worth as much as salt?” her older sisters turned and yelled.
“Yes, I love him so, like salt!” Maruška said again and looked even more lovingly at her father.
But to no avail. Her father was mightily enraged, why, his own child only valued him as much as ordinary salt, which everyone takes between their fingers and dusts around.
“Go, go from my sight!” he yelled at her, “if you don’t value me for more than salt! When such a time comes when salt is worth more than gold, only then will you ever be queen!”
Maruška could not even speak from grief, her father having refused her love so. She was used to obeying her father’s words to the letter and knew that she could no longer stay home, especially with her sisters around, so she took up her things and went away. She took off with the winds, over hills and through valleys, until she came far away to a dark forest. Here, from thin air, an old woman stood in her way.
Maruška, Maruška, tell me, where are you going and why have you been crying?
“Oh, dear grandma, why even tell you, when you cannot help me?”
“Come, young girl, just tell me your tale, perhaps you may find council with me yet. Don’t you know that gray hairs hide heads full of wisdom?”
Maruška told the old lady all her troubles and said that all she wanted was to live to see her father convinced that she loved him. The old lady knew ahead of time what Maruška would say, for she was an intelligent woman, a sorcerer. She listened to Maruška and called her immediately with her, to stay with her in her house. Maruška was glad to find someone to complain to, and gratefully followed the woman to the place where she lived in a small hut under the forest canopy. The woman gave all she had, and found for Maruška some refreshment, for she was now quite hungry and thirsty.
“And now,” said the grandma, “quickly to work. But say, do you know how to work the spindle, wind the wool, and weave? And can you graze my sheep and milk them?”
“I do not know how yet, grandma, I do not know, but I will learn, if only you will show me once,” Maruška said.
“Well, I will show it all to you, and come the right time, it will all come of good use to you.”
And so Maruška jumped to work like a bee, for though she did not yet know how things went among the poor, she quickly became accustomed. Rolled-up sleeves and a white apron looked good on her, like on a good working girl.
Meanwhile, at home, her sisters got on proudly. They petted their father ceaselessly, wound themselves around his neck and would have perhaps eaten him out of love had he not hemmed and hawed at their advances. The elder one dressed day after day in more expensive clothes and wreathed herself in gold, the middle one organized feasts and balls, both indulged whenever they wished. The father soon noted that the older daughter indeed liked gold much more than him, and as the middle one declared her intention to find a husband, he saw that with her innocence so too would her love for him wilt. For a moment, he thought of Maruška, but what? Of her there was not even a tale.
“Who cares!” he dismissed the thought of her. “After all, she only liked me as much as ordinary salt.”
Once there was supposed to be a large feast in the castle again, for the middle one’s suitors were set to come. Then the chef came running breathlessly.
“My king,” he stammered, “disaster, great disaster!”
“What is it, have you lost your mind?” the king says.
“That, that, my king, my mind has stopped. All the salt, which we had, whether it melted, or just slipped through the cracks of the Earth, is gone, not a grain is left. What am I to salt with?”
“What a fool you are! Send for more!”
“Sure, but the same thing happened in every house, the whole land is devoid of salt!”
“Then salt with something else or cook those meals that don’t need it!” said the annoyed king, sending the chef away.
The chef thought, what the king wills, must be done, and so cooked meals without salt: first, whatever came to his mind, then, everything sweet. It was an odd feast, without salty things! And the guests slowly trickled away from the king and no new ones came. Why would they, if they couldn’t get here what even the poorest home would offer you, “bread and salt with good will.” The king was dejected, his daughters were beside themselves, where did their glory days go! Well, look, gold enough, but of salt not even one grain, though they sent for it everywhere. It was all gone!
Slowly the people lost all their appetite for food, all except for salt, just a little bit, to put on their tongue. The livestock suffered too, the cows and sheep stopped milking, for they had no salt. The people walked around in a daze and fell into illness. The king and his daughters looked like shadows, unrecognizable from sickness. It was a god’s curse on the whole country. They would have paid equal weight in gold for anyone who would have brought them even a grain of salt.
Now the king began to realize, what an important gift of god salt is, but he would have been able to bear the misery, if Maruška had not been on his conscience, and the wrong he did to her!
Meanwhile, our Maruška was doing quite well. There was no work that she would not have learned and to which she would not have gotten accustomed, she knew not about the blight. She did not know what was happening in her father’s home and country. But the wise woman knew all, and the right time for all things. Thus, one day she called to Maruška and said to her:
“My girl, why I told you, that the time will come; now yours has come, it is time you headed home.”
“Oh, my dear good grandma, how could I go home, when my father does not want me?” says Maruška and began to cry.
“Don’t cry, my girl, everything will work out well. Salt there has become more expensive than gold, you may present yourself before your father.”
And with that, the sorcerer told everything which Maruška did not yet know, and added:
“You have worked well for me, now tell me, what do you want as reward for your service?”
“Well have you directed me, well have you raised me, grandmother! For everything I simply thank you. I wish only for a bit of salt, to bring to my father as a token.”
“And you wish for nothing more? Do you not know that I can do anything for you?” asked the wise lady again.
“I wish for nothing more, just the salt!” Maruška replied.
“Well, if you value salt so much, may you never lack it,” said the sorcerer. “And I will give you nothing, but for this twig. When the wind begins to blow from the west in the afternoon, follow it, go through three valleys, over three peaks, then stop and hit the twig against the ground! Where you hit, there the earth will open, and you go inside! What you find there, all yours: it will be your finery.”
Maruška said thank you for everything, took with her the golden stick and a full carrying-sack of salt and sadly went on her way – sadly, for she had always gotten along well at the grandma’s. But she was happy, knowing that she was not saying goodbye for the last time, she told her that she would return one day, just as soon as her father accepted her back. The grandma just smiled at this and told her:
“Just stay, my girl, good and valiant, and you will do well forever. Don’t worry about me in the slightest!”
As they talked, they reached the edge of the forest. And here, as Maruška wanted to say thank you one more time, she was there no more – where she went, who knows, but Maruška was all alone. Her longing to see her father increased all the more, and she quickly made her way towards her father’s castle.
She came once more among her own, but for one, because they had not seen her for a long time, and also, because she had her hair tied up in a handkerchief, they did not recognize her, and did not want to give her an audience with the king.
“Hey, just let me through,” Maruška insisted sternly, “for I bring our lord the king a gift above gold, and a sure cure for what ails him!”
They told this to the king, and he at once ordered them to let her in. When she came to him, she requested some bread. The king ordered some be brought, but sighed deeply as he did so:
“Bread we have, but no salt!”
“What we do not have, that we could have!” said Maruška in the kind voice she used once with her father and uncovered her head.
Here the king barely did not faint from happiness as he recognized his dear Maruška. He begged her to forgive what had happened. She looked at him kindly and hugged him but kept looking intently at him. “Well then, everything good has happened!”
The word immediately got out that the king’s youngest daughter had returned and that she had brought salt. Everyone was happy at this. Maruška’s sisters were happy too, not as much of their sister but more of the salt, in the hope that at least a little would remain for them. And Maruška forgave their malice and welcomed them too with a salted slice of bread. And to everyone who came she poured off some salt from her sack. And when her father, in fear that the salt would all be spent, cautioned her to by god not give it all away, saying “slowly, slowly with the good stuff,” she always just replied:
“There is still enough, father dear!”
And yes! However much she took out, she always had enough salt for everyone, as if the small sack were bottomless.
And all the sickness left the king, as if he just shook it off. Rejoicing this, he called together the elders of the city and of the country and had Maruška named queen. Here, when Maruška was announced as queen under the wide-open sky, she felt a warm wind on her face, blowing from the west. She confided to her father everything the wise woman had told her. She followed the wind, and when she passed over three valleys and three peaks, she stopped and hit the ground with the twig. As she hit, the earth parted and Maruška stepped inside.
Instantly – she didn’t even know how she got here – she came into an immense cavern, which was all as if made of ice: the ceiling, walls, and floor, everything glistening and gleaming as if throwing off sparks. On each side were tiny tunnels, and in them ran tiny little folks with glowing lanterns who greeted Maruška:
“Welcome, welcome, queen, we have been waiting for you, our lady ordered us to lead you around everywhere and to show you everything, for it is all yours!”
They danced around her, twirling their lanterns and climbing up and down the walls fly-like, and the walls gleamed like precious stones. Maruška walked, stunned by all this beauty. The little folks led her along hallways and mine-shafts lined with icy stalactites, shining like silver. They took her to the garden, where there were red ice roses, daisies, and all kinds of miraculous flowers. The little folks took the prettiest rose and gave it to their new queen. She sniffed it, but the rose had no scent.
“Oh, what is all this?” the queen asked. “I have never seen this kind of beauty before!”
“This is all salt!” the little folks replied.
“Really? This is growing salt?” the queen replied, astounded, and thought to herself that it would be a shame to take even the smallest part of this.
The little folks guessed what she was thinking, and called to her:
“Just take, Maruška, take, however much you want, you will never exhaust it, you will never miss it again!”
Maruška thanked the little folks kindly and returned again to the surface. But the earth stayed open behind her.
When she returned home and showed her father the rose and told him everything, here the king saw, that that old grandma had outfit her daughter with more finery than he could have ever managed to. And Maruška did not forget her either. She had the finest carriage immediately outfitted and set out with her father to find the old lady, to never let her out of their company again.
Maruška knew the way well, knew every path in the forest, but though she crossed it a hundred times, and looked every direction, there was no sign of the cottage or of the old lady. Only now did they fully realize what kind of old grandma that was and that any searching for her was in vain. They returned home. In the carrying sack there was no more salt, but Maruška knew now where the salt grew: they never grew want of it again!
Translated from Spanish by Joshua Belisario Garcia '24
As for the translation of "El Barzon", I wanted to do a presentation of the song and its relation to the Mexican Revolution and the working class's historic fight for civil rights and protections. However, I couldn't find an adequate translation of the lyrics to share with the class, so I translated it myself. The song is something my mom has played in the house before and that I've heard in Mexico as recently as a few years ago. Even today, there is tremendous inequality among Mexico's citizens. I feel that the struggles of the singer are struggles that many people today can still relate to, and that tells me that work to give people there equal voice is not done. To be honest, I feel like, as a member of the working class in the US who has put up with and seen others put up with law-breaking managers, toxic, low-paying workplaces, and the struggle to move forth financially, there are a lot of Americans who could relate to the words in this song if they could just know what they meant. For context, I am both an American and Mexican citizen.
Those lands in the corner
Esas tierras del rincón
I sowed them with a bow-legged ox
Las sembré con un buey pando
My yoke ring broke out
Se me reventó el barzón
And the team is always walking
Y siempre la yunta andando
When I got halfway down the land, the plow was buried
Cuando llegué a media tierra, el arado iba enterrado
It buried itself up to the hitch
Se enterró hasta la telera
The rudder came off, the yoke ring was chipping
El timón se deshojó, el barzón se iba trozando
The yoke was sagging, the sower was talking to me
El yugo se iba pandeando, el sembrador me iba hablando
I told the sower, "Don't talk to me when I'm plowing"
Yo le dije al sembrador, "no me hable cuando ande arando"
My yoke ring broke out
Se me reventó el barzón
And the team is always walking
Y siempre la yunta andando
When I finished picking, the rich man came and split it
Cuando acabe de piscar, vino el rico y lo partió
He took all my corn, didn’t even leave me any to eat
Todo mi maíz se llevó, ni pa' comer me dejó
“I present you the bill here
Te presenta aquí la cuenta
Here you owe twenty pesos from the rent of some oxen
Aquí debes veinte pesos de la renta de unos bueyes
Five pesos of agave, three pesos of some yoke ropes
Cinco pesos de magueyes, tres pesos de unas coyundas
Five pesos from an azcuna, three pesos for I don’t know what
Cinco pesos de una azcuna, tres pesos no se de qué
But everything is in the bill, along with the twenty pesos that you got from the store
Pero todo está en la cuenta, a más de los veinte reales que sacaste de la tienda
Even with all the corn you get, you can’t pay the hacienda
Con todo el maíz que te toca, no le pagas a la hacienda
Now go to work, so that you can continue paying.”
Ora vete a trabajar, pa' que sigas abonando
I just got to thinking, making a leaf cigar
Nomás me quedé pensando, haciendo un cigarro de hoja
"What a shameless patrón, he took all my corn
"¡Que patrón tan sin vergüenza, todo mi maíz se llevó
For his damn reserve!"
Para su maldita troja!"
My yoke ring broke out
Se me reventó el barzón
And the team is always walking
Y siempre la yunta andando
When I got to my house, my beloved was saying to me,
Cuando llegue a mi casita, me decía, mi prenda amada
"Where is your corn?” I replied very sad,
"¿Onta el maíz que te tocó?", le respondí yo muy triste
"The boss took it, for what I owed the hacienda
"El patrón se lo llevó, por lo que debía en la hacienda"
But the boss told me to count on the land
Pero me dijo el patrón, que contara con la tierra
Now I will go work to keep paying him
Ora voy a trabajar para seguirle abonando
Twenty pesos and ten cents, are what I still owe.”
Veinte pesos diez centavos, son los que salgo restando
My beloved told me,
Me decía mi prenda amada
"Don't work with that man, he's just stealing from us
"No trabajes con ese hombre, nomás nos está robando"
Stop with the exercises, novenas and confessions
Déjate ya de ejercicios, novenas y confesiones
Do you not see your family?
¿Que no ves a tu familia?
That he no longer has (adequate) underwear, nor do I have a skirt, nor do you have pants?
Que ya no tiene ya calzones ni yo tengo ya faldilla, ni tú tienes pantalones
You should become an agrarista
Mejor metete a agrarista
Go with the committee, let them sign you up on the list
Anda con el comité, que te apunten en la lista
Don’t you see my co-father, his brother and his son-in-law?
Que no ves a mi compadre, a su hermano y a su yerno
They’re sowing very at ease, lands that the government gave them.”
Tan sembrando muy a gusto, tierras que les dio el gobierno
My yoke ring broke out
Se me reventó el barzón
And the team is always walking
Y siempre la yunta andando
Translated from Spanish by Laura Romig '25
This piece is a translation of selected fragments from Ernesto Cardenal's collected Epigramas. After reading the poems in Spanish in a Spanish literature class, I wanted to bring their beauty, contemplation, and sorrow into English, while also maintaining their elements of resistance. Navigating the threads of intense infatuation with intense rebellion against dictatorship was a challenge, but I hope to have captured Ernesto Cardenal’s spirit of liberation, love, and resistance in the finished translation.
Fragmentos de Epigramas
Te doy, Claudia, estos versos, porque tú eres su dueña.
Los he escrito sencillos para que tú los entiendas.
Son para ti solamente, pero si a ti no te interesan,
un día se divulgarán tal vez por toda Hispanoamérica…
Y si al amor que los dictó, tú también lo desprecias,
Otras soñarán con este amor que no fue para ellas.
Y tal vez verás, Claudia, que estos poemas,
(escritos para conquistar a ti) despiertan
En otras parejas enamoradas que los lean
Los besos que en ti no despertó el poeta.
Cuídate, Claudia cuando estés conmigo
Porque el gesto más leve, cualquiera palabra, un suspiro
de Claudia, el menor descuido,
Tal vez un día lo examinen eruditos,
Y este baile de Claudia se recuerde por siglos.
Claudia, ya te lo aviso.
De estos cines, Claudia, de estas fiestas, de estas carreras de caballos,
No quedará nada para la posteridad
Sino los versos de Ernesto Cardenal para Claudia (si acaso)
Y el nombre de Claudia que yo puse en esos versos
Y los de mis rivales, si es que yo decido rescatarlos del olvido, y los incluyo también en mis versos para ridiculizarlos.
Ésta será mi venganza
Que un día llegue en tus manos el libro de un poeta famoso
Y leas estas líneas que el autor escribió para ti
Y tú no lo sepas.
Me contaron que estabas enamorada de otro
Y entonces me fui a mi cuarto
Y escribí ese artículo contra el Gobierno
Por el que estoy preso.
De pronto suena en la noche una sirena
De alarma, larga, larga
El aullido lúgubre de la sirena
De incendio o de la ambulancia blanca de la muerte,
Como el grito de la cegua en la noche,
Que se acerca y se acerca sobre las calles
Y las casas y sube, sube, y baja
Y crece, crece, baja y se aleja
Creciendo y bajando. No es incendio ni muerte:
Es Somoza que pasa.
Yo he repartido papeletas clandestinas
Gritado: ¡VIVA LA LIBERTAD! en plena calle
Desafiando a los guardias armados.
Yo participe en la rebelión de abril:
Pero palidezco cuando paso por tu casa
Y tu sola mirada me hace temblar.
Somoza Desveliza La Estatua de Somoza en el Estadio Somoza
No es que yo crea que el pueblo me erigió esta estatua
Ni tampoco que pretenda pasar con ella a la posteridad
Porque yo se que el pueblo la derribará un día
Ni que haya querido erigirme a mi mismo en vida
El monumento que muerto no me erigirse vosotros:
Sino que erigí esta estatua porque se que la odiáis.
Nuestros poemas no se pueden publicar todavía
Circulan de mano en mano, manuscritos,
O copiados en mimeografo. Pero un día
Se olvidará el nombre del dictador
Contra el que fueron escritos,
Y seguirán siendo leídos.
Al perderte yo a ti tú y yo hemos perdido:
Yo porque tú eras lo que yo más amaba
Y tú porque yo era el que te amaba más.
Pero de nosotros dos tú pierdes más que yo:
Porque yo podré amar a otras como te amaba a ti
Pero a ti no te amaran como te amaba yo.
Muchachas que algún día leáis emocionados estos versos
Y soñéis con un poeta:
Sabed que yo los hice para una como vosotras
Y que fue en vano.
Excerpts from Epigrams
I give you these lines, Claudia, because you are their keeper,
these lines written simply so that you may understand them.
They belong to you alone, but if they don’t interest you,
one day they will be scattered through perhaps all of Latin America…
And if you disparage the love that they dictate,
well, other women will dream about this love that was never theirs.
Then perhaps you will see, Claudia, that these poems
(written to conquer you) can wake in other couples
The kisses that the poet could not wake in you.
Tread carefully, Claudia, when you are with me,
because the lightest expression, an offhand word, just a sigh
from Claudia, the smallest carelessness,
perhaps one day the scholars will examine
and remember this twist of yours for centuries.
Claudia, I have already warned you.
Out of all of these cinemas, Claudia, all of these parties, all of these horse races,
Nothing will remain,
Except the verses of Ernesto Cardenal for Claudia (at most),
and your name that I have written into these verses
and the verses of my rivals, if I decide to salvage them from oblivion, and include them in my writing,
and ridicule them.
This will be my vengeance:
That one day the book of a famous poet will arrive in your arms
and you will read these lines that the author wrote for you
and you will never know.
They told me that you are in love with another
And so I fled to my quarters
And wrote an article against the Government
For which I am now imprisoned.
And suddenly at night I dream of a siren
in a fit of alarm, long, longer,
its mournful scream
like heavenly fire or the pale chariot of death
like the shriek of a night-time phantom
that approaches and quickens through the streets
and among the houses and rises, rises, and sinks
and grows, swells, lowers, and retreats,
surging and sinking. But it is neither fire nor death:
It is Somoza.
I have distributed clandestine pamphlets,
shouted FREEDOM FOREVER! in the street
to challenge the armed guards there.
I charged forward in the April rebellion:
yet when I pass by your home I shine pale with fear.
Your gaze alone makes me tremble.
Somoza Unveils the Statue of Somoza in Somoza Stadium:
“I do not pretend to believe the people erected this statue for me,
because I know better than anyone that I ordered it myself.
Nor do I intend for my achievement to endure forever
because I know one day the people will tear it down.
Nor have I decided to construct while I am alive
the monument that when I die will never be built:
No, I built this statue simply because I know you will despise it.”
Our poems still cannot be published
They spread from hand to hand, only drafts
or mimeograms. But one day
the world will forget the name of the dictator
against whom they were written
And yet they will go on being read.
Upon losing you, we have both lost:
I, because it was you who I loved best,
and you, because it was I who loved you best.
But of us both, you have lost more than I:
because I could love others as I loved you,
but nobody could love you, as you were loved by me.
To the women who will read these verses, dreaming fitfully of their poet:
Know I wrote them for one like you
And know it was in vain.
Translated from English by Samuel Schwartz
This is a translation of a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem called Spring and Fall. It utilizes what Hopkins called sprung meter as well as intricate rhyme to create a beautiful sense of motion throughout the piece.
¿Margarita, te acongoja
Que el dorado soto se deshoja?
Hojas como asuntos mortales
Tus ensueños de verdor ¿inquietan tales?
¡Ay, qué el corazón se envejece
Y a la larga menos se enardece!
Mas no plañes aunque cada vez
Que andas hojarasca está bajo los pies
Y sollozarás y sabrás lo que la causa es
Porque, niña, como quieras llamarles
La pena tiene las mismas manantiales
Ni la boca ni la mente jamás han expresado
Lo que el corazón ha oído, espíritu ha descifrado
Es la plaga de nuestras horas
Es Margarita a quien lloras