How many possible lives will have left
in this poor and tiny death,
how many possible lives that fortune
would give memory or oblivion!
When I die a past shall die;
with this flower a still-to-come has died
in waters that knew her not, an open
still-to-come razed by the stars.
I, like her, die of infinite
destinies that hazard doesn't supply;
my shadow seeks out the wearied myths
of a country that always made excuses.
A bit of marble tends her memory;
over us grows, atrocious, history.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney