When his lover died
he decided to grow old
in the closed mansion
with his memory and the mirror
in which she saw herself one clear day.
Like the gold in the miser's coffer,
he thought he would save
all of yesterday in the clear mirror.
Time for him would not run out.


And after the first year–
"How were they," he asked, "brown or black,
her eyes? Light green? . . . Gray?
How were they, good God, that I don't remember?"


He went out to the street one day
of Spring, and silently strolled
his double mourning, the heart locked . . .
From a window, in the hollow shade
he saw flashing eyes. He lowered his
and walked on . . . Like those!

                     Spanish; trans. Rosa Berumen

Antonio Machado, Spanish, trans. Rosa Berumen, 2009.