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The Balcony

In the summer of a balcony in France
we watched the foreign cedars
and an impossible blue in the distance
a lake filled with ceibo trees and goldfinches
 
We liked a more open country:
There are no palm trees here, I would say
Bird song does not wake us up here
with muddy waters and ships.
 
Ah! I prefer the River Plate.
Faithful to absence and still ungrateful,
I am here at times a foreinger.
Now I miss the balcony, not the palm tree,
I miss the cedars, not the muddy coasts.
Ah! how blue was the lake and there were roses.
 
Edited by Patricia N. Klingenberg and Fernanda Zullo-Ruiz
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