Little q queen of my bones, I crown you
with laurels from the South and oregano from Lota.
And you cannot do without that crown, which the earth made
for you with balsam and green leaves.
Like the man who loves you, you come from the green provinces:
from there we brought the clay that runs in our blood.
In the city we wander like other countrypeople, confused,
afraid the market will shut down before we get there.
Dearest, your shadow has the fragrance of plums;
your eyes set their roots in the South;
your heart is a clay toy shaped like a dove.
Your body is smooth as stones in the water;
your kisses are clusters of fruit, fresh with dew.
As I live by your side, I live with the earth.