The Dead Man

A tree-trunk on the mountain brought to ground.

Forehead lofty and limpid, proud and pure.

Black brows that come together in the sure

And finely crayoned arch of outlines found

Tracing a bird's flight upon pencilled skies.

Nose like a falcon's beak. Snow-white hair.

The fir, no longer green, has crashed down there,

And partly girdled with the ice it lies.

And through the aperture of half-shut eyes

A gleam despairing, vitreous and pale-

The water's lustre in a stagnant well.

With my handkerchief I brushed away the flies;

And on the corpse's face the shadow fell

As like unto a condor as a veil!

Salvador Diaz Mirén