II

The weeks creep past,
form clouds, lose themselves,
conceal themselves in the sky,
come to rest there
like light faded.

Time is long, Padro,
time is short, Rosa;
and the weeks, exact
in their roles, exhausted,
pile up like berries,
stop palpitating.

Till one day, the wind,
rumorous, unaware,
opens them, stretches them,
beats them, and now
they mount like tattered
flags which return
to the lost homeland.

That is how memories are.

translated by Alastair Reid