Epode IV
Let the young poet come forth and
paint a new bouquet on the soiled
apron of the hour, which silently drags
its legs toward the purple dusk.
Let the day of a new ballad morph
itself in the hallways of his cranium
a ballad for the unconquered smile
and the soiled hands of the peasant.
Let the dormant myth of salvation
come out of the stagnant pathway
of the dogmas and their sterility.
Let creativity flow like diaphanous
waterfall roaring his new dream,
and let the white hyacinths unfold
their fragrance to the end of space.
Let the young poet come forth
and from the widest horizon
of his heart, let him recite his lyricism
about the shredded light amid
the lonely olive tree’s leaves
and about the harmonious cicadas.
Libros Libertad 