Antonio Machado
It is noon. A park.
Winter. White paths;
symmetrical mounds
and skeletal branches.
In the greenhouse
orange trees in pots,
and in its barrel, painted
green, the palm tree.
An old man says,
to his old cape:
«The sun, this beauty
of the sun!…» Children play.
The water of the fountain
slides, runs and dreams
lapping, almost silent,
against the greenish stone.
