The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Guitar

Beneath the full moon
they went hunting guitars.
And brought back this one,
pale, delicate, shapely,
eyes of inexhaustible mulata

waist of wood with an opening.
She is young, barely flies.
But already she sings when she hears
songs and couplets
flutter their wings in other cages.
Sombersongs and lonelycouplets.
There is inscription on her cage:
"Beware: she dreams."


--Nicolas Guillen
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