Translated by Rochelle Holt
Ghost of Becquer*
LXXV
Will it be true that, when sleep
Touches our eyes with its rose-like fingers,
The spirit that lives in the prison,
Flees in rapid flight?
Will it be true that, guest of the clouds,
By the delicate blowing of the nocturnal breeze,
It ascends, winged, to the empty region
To encounter others?
And there, stripped of the human form,
There, the earthly bonds broken,
Breif hours it lives
In the idea of a silent world?
And does it laugh, cry, hate and love
And observe a trace of grief and joy,
Similar to that which occurs when
a meteor crosses the heavens?
I don't know if that world of spirits
lives within or passes outside of us;
But I know that I know many people
whom I don't know!
* as a teenager in Chicago
