by José Lezama Lima （Translated by Nathaniel Tarn）

    An obscure meadow lures me，

    her fast， close-fitting lawns

    revolve in me， sleep on my balcony.

    They rule her beaches， her indefinite

    alabaster dome re-creates itself.

    On the waters of a mirror，

    the voice cut short crossing a hundred paths，

    my memory prepares surprise：

    fallow dew in the sky， dew， sudden flash.

    Without hearing I'm called：

    I slowly enter the meadow，

    proudly consumed in a new labyrinth.

    Illustrious remains：

    a hundred heads， bugles， a thousand shows

    baring their sky， their silent sunflower.

    Strange the surprise in that sky

    where unwilling footfalls turn

    and voices swell in its pregnant center.

    An obscure meadow goes by.

    Between the two， wind or thin paper，

    the wind， the wounded wind of this death，

    this magic death， one and dismissed.

    A bird， another bird， no longer trembles.