Antonio Machado to Miguel de Unamuno, after the death of Antonio’s wife: December 1910.

Mario Ariza

After expiration I stare hours
at the Hurricane lamp. Outside
spring rain fell on Soria
fell on the laurel she'd planted
now happy in the onslaught of

Miguel, my spirit is shred. I do prefer
my own death, I think, prefer to kill
                                a thousand bright-eyed men

for her one life. I know, I know; there's nothing
original in this sentiment. We want to die
                                                        with what has died.

I stared into a sickle flame
until the kerosene ran out.
Her body in the dark
was the only light. Thought:
I should probably call the priest.

In sum, She lives in me, more than ever
and I firmly believe I am to recover her.

Perhaps, through this
                          Gods come into the world?