The propeller's hymn to Heredia's words,
To words once lost in inky fog…
I played one of my comedies for her
Us two suspended in airy smog.

The sun pulsed through my head fervently.
The words flowed down into one refrain.
She watched me, expressionless; intently
Through the wild tango of her face-á-main.

I don't know if she took what I said serious.
(In the corners of her lips two lines were wrote…)
Beneath us growled the rhythmic Bleriot
And the wind kissed her sky-blue throat.