(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!