A horse escaped from the circus

and lodged in my daughter’s eyes:

there he ran circles around the iris

raising silver dust-clouds in the pupil

and halting sometimes

to drink from the holy water of the retina.

Since then my daughter feels a longing

for meadows of grass and green hills…

waiting for the moon to come

and dry with its silk sleeves

the sad water that wets her cheeks.

—Alberto Blanco, Translated by Jennifer Clement