HYMN IN THE CORDILLERA DE LA COSTA

The stone! I want to sing the stone:
O dark mother, mine, spread!
When my love takes her and caresses her,
in my hand it remains, pure and warm,
the dark shape of the Earth.

The stone is a flower asleep in her sadness,
foam of Death, grave flour.
Perhaps the stone is a smile:
the one of silence on her knees,
yeast of rabies and bones.

The stone in rennet, like dried fruit,
or in a multitude of motionless fantasy,
reminds man of his withered root:
She —the stone— beggar or summit,
it is always one beyond sementeras!