(Personal translation of Antonio Machado)
From the Moorish city
Behind the old walls,
I contemplate the silent evening
Alone with my shadow and my sorrow.
The river runs,
Between shady orchards
And gray vines,
Through the joyous lands of Baeza
The grapevines have golden leaves
On the red stocks
Guadalquivir, like a broken cutlass,
Split, shining and glimmering.
Afar, the hills sleep
Surrounded in fog,
Fog of Autumn, motherly; resting
The rugged bulks of their stoned beings
In this warm November evening,
Pious eve, purplish and violet.
The wind has shaken
The withered elms of the route
Raising in rosy whirlwinds
The dust from the earth.
The moon is ascending
Mauve, panting, and full.
The white roadways
Cross and stray,
Looking for the scattered hamlets
Of the valley and the mountain range.
Roads of the fields–
Oh, now, I cannot walk with her!