You  know my friends
we won’t be back again,.
The virtue of the rain
is annihilated in the suns
and the wind through the flowers
is submerged beneath the blood of the bulls.
Only old vagabonds, when they are dying,
can know, perhaps,
the secrets of the hours spilled
and the reason for the women , damp in summertime.
But we will not. We can’t come back.
Impossible death-head moth
time seduced in fog,
We are ourselves
the perishing rhythm
the look on the face
the invisible snail of death
springtime, pure, obliterated
in unending worlds destroyed,
Nothing more. Just that, alone.
A useless lift of arms
to gather in the sea that flees from us
swollen with the drowned, and those forgotten.
And a sob as well
and a wish to make holes
in the gentle water of the newly born.
While you go your way
singing songs of childhood
I will stay here
astonished and dumb
as if immortally dead
dreaming huge life
and an ancient, inconceivable liberty.
We won’t be back again.
It’s true my friends.
The sun is going down.
The statue, the ant, the tree
are all confused in the never known mind of my hands,
35 seconds have gone by on the watch on my wrist.

Destino
Miquel Labordeta
Will Kirkland, translation