What will you be doing at this hour,
my Rita of the Andes,
sweet, gentle-hearted Rita?
The hiccups won’t even let me sleep,
the thin blood trembling inside me.
Where are your hands that, as if repentant,
would iron the white afternoons to come?
Ah, you fine rain, why do you take from me
the desire to go on living?
What will become of that dress that flutters?
And of the dreams and your gazelle-like walk,
and of your wild-violet scent from the woods?
You stand by the door, watching the clouds in the sky,
then you shiver and say: Oh God, how cold it is!
Meanwhile a wild bird is crying upon the roof tiles.
