Las cuencas de tus días,
tus pálidas mejillas
y tu collar fino y brillante
parpadearon un momento
y dejaron desangrarse la flor de tus misterios.
Of your days the hollows,
your white-pale cheeks
and your fine bright necklace
for a moment blinked
and of your mysteries they let the flower bleed.
Of leprechauns I did not know, nor a pot of gold I looked for. A child I was when over the rainbow a sound, a light coming from the north I looked for. And it was next door. Light, brightness over my roof, my head, into the clouds to become, riding over forests and wisps of dancing grass opening a path for my camera. Into the whiteness of a back yard giving birth to a palette of colours for my picture, the sought for rainbow. And to the north no trip was ridden over my next door house, just there it was. The flower of the mystery of my past bled into the photograph.