(In Orihuela, where he and I were born, death like a lightening flash deprived me of Ramón Sijé, so dear to me)
I want to be the grieving gardener
of the earth you fill and fertilize,
my dearest friend, so soon.
Mingling my helpless sorrow with the rain,
the snails, and all the organs of your body,
I shall feed your heart
to the drooping poppies. Pain bunches up
between my ribs till every breath I draw
becomes an aching stitch.
A brutal slam, a heavy frozen fist,
a sudden silent killing axe-blow sent
you toppling to the ground.
Nothing gapes wider than my wounded cry,
this grief that plummets down to roots of death
sunk deeper than my life.
Across the stubble of the dead I walk
uncomforted, leaving my heart behind,
and go about my business.
[Translated by Edwin Honig]