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Whites, pinks. Blues almost in stripes
      Withdrawn, mental.
Points of latent light show signs
      Of a secret shadow.
But the colour, betraying the shadow,
      Materializes into a mass.
Lying in the summer of the house,
      A form is lighting up.
Clarity brought to life between outlines
      Of such pure repose,
Which cut and erase with their lines
      The base confusion.
The flesh is bare. Its evidence
      Is resolved in repose.
Just sameness, prodigious
      Height of presence.
Immediate fullness, without surroundings,
      Of the female body,
No excellence, neither voice nor flower. Destiny?
      Oh absolute Present!


Jorge Guillén
Translation by Joaquín González Muela

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