Your laugh: it reminds me of a tree
fissured by a lightning streak, by a silver bolt
that drops from the sky, splitting the poll,
slicing the tree with its sword.
A laugh like yours I love is born
only in the foliage and snow of the highlands,
the air’s laugh that bursts loose in those altitudes,
dearest: the Araucanian tradition.
O my mountain woman, my clear Chillán volcano,
slash your laughter through the shadows,
the night, morning, honey of the noon:
birds of the foliage will leap in the air
when your laugh like an extravagant
light breaks through the tree of life.