This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I
have no desire to live, my heart.
This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be?
Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman.
This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice over her poppy,
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"
My violent black flowers; and the barbaric
and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance.
And the silence of her dignity
with burning holy oils will put all end to it.
So this afternoon, as never before, I am
with this owl, with this heart.
Other women go by; and seeing me so sad,
they take on a bit of you
in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse.
This afternoon it is raining, raining hard. And I
have no desire to live, my heart!