A Fruit in the Grass

Afar, the large polite world of language
here, the wide serenity of things
in the ocean’s bottom where it lives
how could it be considered otherwise?
In this art in which it exalts
if the first to pick up the chisel
united in words the brilliance of the humble color
the trace of what was seen the wide serenity of things
one half is night the other half is deception
feeling it, is to see the world go around
thin like an abysm between the edges of time
and it is not enough reading nor looking
it is so beautiful that its body thinks
there, the poet is an earthworm;
he makes of the orchard
because in the plum he sees
the shadow of its tree

Version by V. Miranda
Poem by Luis Benitez