Dark bower by the deepest night, Not again, not again; Songs of leaves that whisper to the half-moon hymn you: Señora, Seeking you, clouds soar the skies; You conceal all the stars in your tresses. Yet you look back stopping by the horizon and I do not see the pain lining your eyes by dawn: whom do the marigolds mourn, by the valley of the drying stream in late summer? Who silent walks down the rainbow whose tracks leave pink mists on grass-tops? Whom does the myna call to in agony by the wet winds of the early hour, and silent tears of the early rose? Señora, perdóname, not again, not again, this empty night, chasm down the valley of days.