As day is born, the red cock
violently raises his short crest like a wound,
spits on the sky that cloud of blood
that poets later sing of, in their verse.
He forgets the poets and crows as always,
opens his great yellow beak like an autumn,
your tough beak brother of the conquering spur
that tears your bone heart from the stone.
Waking thus, screaming, without hindrance,
rousing sleepy-eyed day,
tired of this night in which sad men
thought on the moon like a forgotten god.
Crow, crow, and forget me although I praise you,
rough human poet who cannot understand you.
Crow freely, fearlessly, without rhythm, without words,
while day melts in its celestial forge.
From Troubled Times, 20th Century Spanish Poets, Prospice 15: Edited/Translated by J.C.R. Green, Albert Rowe, & Sandra MacGregor Hastie.
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