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    SYRINGA

On the branches whiteness
Standing erect. What shrub?
Flower toward me. I pull it off,
Fatally I pull it off. I am my pleasure

This flower smells of...
            Jasmine?
                        It isn't.
                                    Whiteness?
                                                Perhaps.

I remember the attack of this almost sourness
Sharp like a taste.
A taste or smell. And a faithful name. Maybe...
Yes, syringa! Perfect: in its name it becomes bare.

autógrafo

Jorge Guillén
Translation by Joaquín González Muela


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