The Thorn Of Passion

I go dreaming down roadways
of evening. Emerald pine-trees
golden hillsides
dusty oak-leaves!…
Where does this road go?
I go travelling, singing,
into the road’s far distance…
– evening falls slow –
‘I bore in my heart
the thorn of passion:
Drew it out one day
And my heart is numb.’

And suddenly all the land
was silent, mute and sombre,
meditating. Sound of the wind
in the riverside poplars.

Evening’s more shadowy
and the turning road
that faintly whitens
blurs, in vanishing.

Lament, my song turns to:
‘Gold thorn, so sharp
Could I but feel you
lodged in my heart.’

Antonio Machado