the orange-trees

Those lovely orange-trees
whose flowers breathe amber
on the meadows are pomanders
in the sun’s brazier:
a perpetual and lovely emerald,
in which the loquacious nightingale
with harmonious voice
tells us a thousand tales;
among whose tender leaves
the flowers which April shaped
from short-lived stars of snow
are fragrant clusters.
The metamorphoses of time
which will sweetly transform
what are diamonds to-day
into topazes to-morrow;
to whose green liveries
crystal twigs give
handsome ornaments
and a most fragrant whiteness.
Rich mine of the valley
where shy January
gave us free gold
and showy May free silver.

Salvador Jacinto Polo de Medina

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lightness

Under the tree
the soup and the fish salad,
or cherry blossoms?

Matsuo Bashō

brief dream

Let me stay for now
where there is a pasania tree —
the summer grove.

Matsuo Bashō

joyfulness

Toward my brushwood door
sending tree leaves for my tea —
the stormy wind.

Matsuo Bashō

landscape without song

Blue sky.
Yellow field.

Blue mountain.
Yellow field.

Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.

One lone
olive
tree.

Federico Garcia Lorca

the death of guillaume apollinaire

 

we know nothing
we knew nothing of grief

the bitter season of cold

digs long furrows in our muscles

he would have preferred the joy of victory

wise under calm sorrows    caged
unable to do anything at all

if snow fell upward

if the sun rose to meet us during the night

to warm us

and trees hung with their crown upside down

—unique teardrop—

if birds were here with us to contemplate themselves

in the tranquil lake above our heads

WE COULD UNDERSTAND

death would be a beautiful long voyage

and an unlimited vacation from the flesh of structures and of bones.

Tristan Tzara