Get used to seeing the shadow behind me, accept
your hands will emerge clean from the rancor
as if they were made in the morning of the river.
My love, the salt gave you its crystalline proportions.
Envy suffers, expires, my songs exhaust it;
one by one its sad captains agonize and die.
I say love, and the world fills with doves.
Each syllable of mine makes the spring arrive.
Then there you are-in bloom, my heart, my dearest:
over my eyes like the leaves of the sky,
there you are. I look at you, lying on the earth.
I see the sun bring its buds to your face;
looking up at the heavens I recognize your steps.
O Matilde, my dearest, crown of glory: welcome!