It was green, the silence; the light was moist;
the month of June trembled like a butterfly;
and you, Matilde, passed through noon,
through the regions of the South, the sea and the stones.
You went carrying your cargo of iron flowers,
seaweed battered and abandoned by the South wind,
but your hands, still white, cracked by corrosive salt,
gathered the blooming stalks that grew in the sand.
I love your pure gifts, your skin like whole stones,
your nails, offerings, in the suns of your fingers,
your mouth brimming with all joys.
Oh, in my house beside the abyss, give me
the tormenting structure of that silence,
pavillion of the sea, forgotten in the sand.