Frenetic axes of cocks
digging in search of the dawn
when down from the dark foothills
comes Soledad Montoya.
Yellow copper of her flesh
smelling of horses and murk.
Smoky anvils of her breasts,
wailing out rounded songs. “Soledad, who are you calling for, all alone, at this hour?”
“Do not worry who it is,
what is this to you, anyway?
I want whatever I want,
my body and my joy.” “Soledad, dreadful one, the stallion that runs free finds at last the sea only to be swallowed by the waves.”
“Do not speak to me of the sea,
for the black dread surges out
from the land of the olive tree,
under the rustling of its leaves.” “Soledad, what anguish you have what horrendous pain! You wail lemon juice, bitter from the lips with longing.”
“Ai, what anguish! I drift
around my house,
from kitchen to bedroom,
my braids undone, on the floor.
Ai, what terror! My clothes
and flesh are fading into black.
Ai, my linen nightgowns!
Ai, my poppy thighs!” “Soledad, wash your body in skylark water. Let peace into your heart, Soledad Montoya.”
Downhill the river sings:
mantle of leaves and sky.
The new light is crowned
in wild pumpkin flowers.
Ai, the pain! Pain of the gypsies,
clean pain from a hidden stream
and from the endless dawn!