The Banks of the River Órbigo

Here, on these river banks, where I glimpsed the light
for the first time, I also leave my heart.
Another murmuring ripple will not stream by,
the black poplar will not stay covered by green fire,
the bird will not sing once more on its branch,
without my leaving in the air all the love that I feel.
Here, on these river banks that carry to the plains
the snow of the peaks, I plant beautiful dreams.
Here too the stones shine: miniature stones,
illuminated green stones eroded by the stream.
Leaves or flames, tiny fires, the glare of the sun,
the crucible of dark groves in the slow dawn.
What cool tranquillity, the soft light that slowly
passes over the eye, that gently decants
the golden afternoon into the tired body.
Leaves or green flames when the breeze blows,
a tiny speck of carmine, a red flower on the grass.
And among such beauty, the river brims, runs,
dazzles between the trees, opens its body to the sun,
its glassy arms, its throaty sounds.
Here, on these river banks, where I glimpsed the light
for the first time, I watch the burning every evening,
the tops of the poplars, the outline of the mountains,
every miniscule stone, bejewelled by the river,
by the river god that fills with fruit our hearts.
Here, on these river banks, where I glimpsed the light
for the first time, I also leave my heart.