The first poet I read who struck me forever. Part of the Lament for Ignazio
Autumn will come with shells,
grapes of mist and mountains huddled,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you are dead forever.
Because you are dead forever,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a pile of extinguished dogs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing for you.
I sing for your profile and your grace.
The distinguished maturity of your knowledge.
Your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
The sadness that your courageous joy once felt.
It will take a long time to be born, if it is born,
such a clear Andalusian, so rich in adventure.
I sing its elegance with words that moan
and I remember a sad breeze in the olive trees.