Because the thirst had wounded everything,
all beings, every land of men . . .
And never again would the rain return

And the village died in the brass silence.
The thin dogs lengthened their tongues up to the galaxies.
And is it only secretly that the forests know how to speak?

And thirst taught impudent words,
and it was a memory of sap and fruit,
it was an iris of ice opened up in the whole sky.

And the man said: here next to my bed
dogs of thirst and fire jump at my throat . . .
But beyond the distances
I hear rain coming joyfully dancing
with violets and roses,
I see it coming in distances of years,
its small, fine and jumping feet.

If it rained on the village,
on the valleys' dry yawn,
if it rained on the carpets
of the mountain,
on the night of yellow rocks.

There was a thin needle,
lost,
in the profuse shade,
a small needle of water.

And the young copper-coloured mother
inclined and naked as a plantain leaf
has a son of mud
fastened to her breasts,
other days the timid skies descended
to pick up the grains in her palm of clay.

Where is the naked water
the water that shines and sings?

The water is in the night like an opaque light.

And that humid word sounding far away in the mountain.
That fresh drum from who knows where.

Translation: 2004, Raúl Jaime Gaviria