Letters to My Mother by Irene Gruss
Translated from the Spanish by Ivan Ivanissevich
So far the great painter
is the wind, says my mother, while
she drags with one foot
a yellow spot of leaves
falling on the unknown park.
So far the great painter (the wind, says she)
is drawing us
separated as we are by a tree, an immense trunk
ah, how much would we love to join our hands
dance around it
lay a cheek on the frozen bark.
But we are separated
by the immense trunk of a tree
in the unknown park.