I am a man of many rooftops.
The whitest ones are set above the sea,
ready to cast off for the sun,
bearinglike sails their sheets hung out to dry.
Others open onto fields, but one,
though it looks out to mountains, opens only onto love.
It's this roof that returns to me the most.
There love tied back the tendrils of geraniums,
trailed the jasmine and the rose along the rail,
and in the burning night might come undone
in a sudden pouring shower of cooling rain.
Far off, the peaks that bore the weight
of the great stars watched over it.
When was love ever so lucky,
and when, amidst just-sprinkled
petals, possessed
with such force by the blood?
Train whistles floated up. Tremblings
of Chinese lanterns from the fairs, live
music, and the glow of lighted trees; these all
rose up, while comets came cascading down,
filling love's eyes in a flash
of fleeting splendour.
It was the sweetest epoch of my heart.
It all returns to me today, so distant
from where I am now, dreaming on this stump
beside a road that opens onto nothing.
Categories: Spanish, Poetry, Cities, Europe, From 1950 to 2000, Spain, Article, Rafael Alberti, Carolyn L. Tipton (read in: words without borders)
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