La Tarde
By Leopold Lugones.
El cielo funde ya su piedra fina
En el horno del sol, que tras del monte,
Va esmaltando el metal del horizonte
Con los más bellos cromos de su mina.
Mordido de color en cada poro.
Friega de oro el metal su pulimento,
Y exorbita hasta el cénit un violento
Pavo real verde delirado en oro.
Sunset
The sky is already melting its fine stone
in the furnace of the sun, behind the mountain,
and will glaze the horizon’s metal
with gorgeous chrome from its mine.
Mouthfuls of color in every pore.
It scrubs the metal golden, polishes
exceedingly more, until the zenith: a violent
green peacock, deliriated in gold.
(Of course when I hear peacocks I think of Flannery O’Connor first and most.)
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