To José Maria Palacio

Palacio, good friend,is springalready dressing branches of the black poplarsby the river and the roads?

On the steppeby the deep Duero, spring is late,yet so lovely and soft when it comes!

Do the old elms havea few new leaves?

The acacias must still be bareand the sierra mountains with snow.

O white and pink mass of Moncayo,there, so handsome in the Aragon sky!

Are brambles in floweramong the gray rocks,and white daisiesin the slender grass?

In those belfriesthe storks must be arriving.

The green wheatfieldsand brown mules in the seeded furrows,and with april rains the farmerswho plant the late lands.

Now beesare sipping rosemary and thyme.

Are the plums in bloom?

Violets left?

Furtive hunters, with partridgedecoys under their long capescannot be missing.

Palacio, good friend,are nightingales already on the riverbanks?

With the first liliesand first roses in the orchards,on a blue afternoon, climb to the cemeteryof Espino, high Espino, where she is in her earth.