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171 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1962
the ruins (las ruinas) (excerpt)
oh god. you who have made us to die,
why did you fill us with the thirst
for eternity that creates the poet?
can you allow the sons of light to fall,
century after century, into the greedy shadow
like thistle-down blown away on the wind?
but you do not exist. you are only the name
man gives to his fear and impotence,
and life without you is like
these splendid ruins here in desolation:
a frenzy of light calmed by the dusk,
a frenzy almost beautiful when it is brief and mild.
all things beautiful have their moment, and vanish.
we must grasp our moment as if it were eternal.
i do not envy you, god; leave me alone
with my human works that do not endure:
the desire to fill what is ephemeral
with eternity is equal to your omnipotence.
such is man. learn then, and stop pursuing
deaf, eternal gods nourished by your prayer
and destroyed when you forget them.
is your life any less beautiful because
it grows and blooms, like the flower, in death's embrace?
the night falls sacred and mysterious,
sweet as the caress of a friendly hand,
and in the breast where once others
laid their brow, i now lie back
to gaze in peace at the landscape and the ruins.