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