Wet with the waters of August, the road
shines as if cut through the full moon,
the full light of an apple,
through the middle of the autumn’s fruit.
Fog, space, or sky, the vague net of the day
swells with cold dreams, noises, fish,
the steam of the islands fights against the land,
the ocean trembles over the light of Chile.
Everything is concentrated like a metal, leaves
hide, winter conceals its lineage,
and we are the only blind ones, endlessly, alone.
Subject only to the silent causeway
of motion, farewell, of departure, of the road:
farewell, the tears of Nature fall.