In the city of mist the feast
Of nights is a wood
Of dark heads of hair and stars.

Disturbing me with its pale fingers of dew
Like lovers' surprising words,
Its silence maddens the solitary plazas,
The streets, the silent spaces
Through which the mysterious, eternal air, passes.

It is the murmur, the winds
Likeat nightfall the shadow
of a head of hair between hands.
It is the murmur drifting in the wind,
In the lugubrious wind
Where lights and mirrors
Of the nocturnal city whimper.

It is the murmur, the syllables
That are born and bring a song
To the heart that dreams,
A song, the syllables
Growing amidst the fog
Or like a naked flower under the rain
(We have never loved so much, no one
Can ever say we have loved so much
In one night.
In our hearts horizons resound
And the vicinity of the earth also resounds.)

Silent verse was in the night,
Clear verse was the instinct
Under rough bark or bitter skin.
Verse, words girdle the slender
Bodies of the women,
Their bodies clear in the moonlight
Suspended in music,
Syllables girdled the bodies
Like ardent voices, like flames.

It is a tree of rain that moans in the wind
Its songs,
The blood rises like a river softly sobbing
And I endure the inflamed sadness of a cry
Spread out in the middle of the night.

Of the thirsty night, the innumerable night,
Of the night that keeps
Desires like shadows,
Of the painful, mute, beloved songs,
Shadows of desires,
Shadows of an old, bitter silence.
Bitter, yes, drifting silence in which nothing is left
But the poem of the night
As a remembrance wounded by the edge of a kiss.