They were the leaves, the murmuring leaves,
the freshness, the countless glowing.
They were the green leaves - the living cell,
the imperishable instant of the landscape -
the green leaves that bring near, in their murmuring,
the sonorous distances like rigging,
the fine, the naked, oscillating leaves.

The leaves and the wind.
Leaves that waved with marine rhythm,
leaves with pure voices
speaking at the same time, and they were not
so many but a single one, palpitating
in a thousand mirrors of air, an endless
humid leaf in all the lights,
queen of the horizon, agile,
jumping little bird, pecking through all
the circles of the horizon, the sparkling circles.

The leaves, the flocks of leaves,
on the brink of the blue, on the brink of flying.

They were the leaves and the murmuring distances,
the leaves and the distances full of languages,
the distances that the wind strums as strings:
oh the stave, the stave of distances
where the leaves are notes played by the wind.

In the leaves beautiful countries and their clouds rustled.
In the leaves murmured distances of remote countries,
they rustled like rains of joyful green,
they laughed, laughed the rains of perfectly clear languages
like waters, fairies' cheerful languages, vowels of joy.

And the distances had rustles of successive fronds,
the distances heard, heard rains that tell legends,
they heard ancient rains. And the wind
carried the distances as it carries a leaf.

Translation: 2004, Raúl Jaime Gaviria