Neither the color of Iquique’s awesome dunes,
nor the inlet of Guatemala’s Rio Dulce: nothing
has changed your profile, subdued in the wheat,
nor your plump-grape form, nor your guitar-mouth.
O my heart, my own, since before all silence,
from the uplands ruled by tangling vines
to the desolate platinum prairies: in every pure
landscape, the earth has imitated you.
But not even the shy mineral hands of the hills,
nor the snows of Tibet, nor the stones of Poland-nothing
has altered your form, your traveling grain of wheat:
as if clay or wheat field, guitars or clusters of Chillán fruit
realize their places, in you: imposing the will
of the savage moon, they defend their belonging in you.