For Consuelo Saleva

It was by fate that I found her

on foot in the middle of a meadow,

ruling over the passing world,

all who spoke to her

or beheld her presence.
 
 

And she said to me:

"Climb the mountain.

I never leave the meadow.

Cut the snow white flowers,

the tough and tender ones;

make them mine."
 
 

I climbed the bitter mountain,

and searched for where

flowers bloomed white among the rocks

in dreamy wakefulness.
 
 

When I came down with my heavy bouquet,

I found her at the meadow's heart,

and covered her feverishly

with a torrent of lilies.
 
 

And never witnessing their whiteness,

she said to me: "Now carry down

only red flowers.

Make them mine.

I cannot leave the meadow."
 
 

Along with the deer, I scaled rocks

and searched for mad flowers,

those that blush fevers and seem

to live and die of redness.
 
 

When I came down,

I offered my gift,

trembling and happy,

and she became like water

bloodied by the wounded deer.
 
 

But gazing at me,

awake in her dreams,

she said, "Go up and carry down

the yellow ones, the yellow ones.

I never leave the meadow."
 
 

Immediately, I climbed the mountain

and searched for thick buds

colored by sun and saffron,

newborn and already eternal.
 
 

When I found her, as always,

in the middle of the meadow,

I began showering her,

a second time,

and left her sparkling,

a garden of gold.
 
 

And still, intoxicated with

the yellow shine,

she told me: "Ascend, my servant,

and cut the colorless flowers,

not the saffron, not the vermilion.

The ones that I love grow

from memories of Eleanora and Ligeia;

they are colored like sleep and dreams.

I am the Lady of the Meadow."
 
 

I went off to conquer the mountain,

now black as Medea,

without a trace of brilliance;

it was like a grotto,

shadowy and certain.
 
 

They did not appear on branches;

they did not open their petals

among stones.

I cut them from the sweet air,

with scissors of love.
 
 

I clipped the blossoms

like a blind cutter.

I cut one air,

and then another;

the air became my jungle.
 
 

When I came down from the mountain,

and set off to find the Queen,

she now walked freely,

no longer white

or the color of violence.
 
 

The sleepwalker passed by,

abandoning the meadow,

and I followed her, following her,

through the pastures and poplar groves…
 
 

And with the garland of my treasure,

airy shoulders and hands,

I continue clipping bouquets from the air

and the air is my harvest…
 
 

She travels ahead, faceless,

she travels without a vestige,

and I still follow her

through a fog that branches
 
 

with these colorless buds,

not frost-white, not vermilion,

until I surrender to limitation,

when my time dissolves…
 
 

Mistral said of this poem, "I wanted to cal this ‘The Adventure,’ my adventure with poetry."
 
 
 
 
 

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Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy