Sonnet Of The Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel

of your statue-like eyes, or the accent

the solitary rose of your breath

places on my cheek at night.

 I am afraid of being, on this shore,

a branchless trunk, and what I most regret

is having no flower, pulp, or clay

for the worm of my despair.

 If you are my hidden treasure,

if you are my cross, my dampened pain,

if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

 never let me lose what I have gained,

and adorn the branches of your river

with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

Translated by John K. Walsh and Francisco Aragon