THE VISION OF REST

A field, a little house, some fragrant
flowers in crude pots at the door;
a window to the horizon open
and in the little house a pair of loving eyes.

That is what I ambition in the moments
in which the route to the future is uncertain,
and in which to fill the heart he is not right
nor the same love for that we cried before.

Far from the world and from men,
not to hear of the miserable cities
the immense voice nor the hated names.

And of all ambition dispossessed,
to cultivate, in the deep solitudes,
in furrows of humility roses of oblivion.