How it drizzles heavily,
How heavily it drizzles;
How it drizzles heavily
Over toward Laíño,
Over toward Lestrove.

How the sad white cloud
Vexes the anxious shining sun,
How veils it and unveils it,
Passes, turns round, returns and rises,
Curled white feather!

Thereafter flung now afar
By the scurrying draughts,
Discoloured, shaded,
Set loose in the airy expanse,
It falls sparkling in bright rays.

The mysterious water sprinkler
Dribbles fine drizzle on the ground
With a perfectly curved trajectory,
Dousing flower by flower,
Item by item, on the riverside.

Resembling a light cotton gauze
Which the subtle wind displaces,
It drifts past in floating waves
Refreshing what the blazing sun
Scorches and shines upon.

How it drizzles heavily
Over the lowlands of Campaña!
How soak the grasslands
On the pathway to Laíño!
How A Ponte bathes in the sun!

Everything is dark toward Caldas,
Blue sky shows bright in Adina,
Transparent, clean and pure;
The pilgrim cloud races across
The rugged mount of Arretén.

Sad it goes for it grazes the earth
Now with the feet of white snow,
Now with the delicate fresh mouth;
Sad it goes, for it invokes the heavens
And dares to kiss the ground.

Sad it goes when it subsides
Vaporous, alone and mute,
When it flaps its wings gently
Like a heart that beats
Wounded by rude distress.

Thus I imagine my mother's
Sad shadow wandering solitary
In the spheres where she exists:
Turning down the transit to glory,
Waiting for those she loved.

I see O Souto—so named for being
Asset of the King—in ochre shadow
Enfolding its network of branches,
Where ferocious the wind stalks,
Roars and explodes in furore.

And O Palacio, serious and grave,
In how much pure light it bathes!
It resembles a bulky vessel
That foundered on the fresh brush
And ignores how to get back to sea.

I see Valga on the gorgeous shoulder
Of an all-silver trail,
Chaste candid virgin,
Demurely seated on rosy plain,
Demurely dressed scarlet.

I see San Lois shining
Bathed in pure hues,
Showing sun and shadows,
Contemplating at leisure
Hills, waters and greenery.

And Padrón, verdant twig,
White she-fay on the bank of a river,
Fruit in bloom I'd wish for,
I watch it disappear far off
Underneath a mantle of dew.

What delicately distended white sail
Runs alone among the stalks of corn,
Mysterious pure star!
The wind around her tells her,
"Butterfly, fly! fly!"

The benign river soothes her
With a murmuring safe haven,
Born of the shadowy coppice
Underneath a gladsome canopy,
In the warmth of a loving sun.

Sun of Italy, sun of love...!
Do you brighten a better landscape?
Do you see more roses, more greenery,
A better sky, softer colours
Among the whitecaps of the gulf?

Sun of Italy, I do not yearn
To feel your burning sunbeam!
For I set eyes on another sun mild;
Here I can breathe sweetly
In a perennial, eternal May.

In this land such enchantment
Is breathed...Sad or poor,
Wealthy or full of misfortune,
Whoever shelters under her sky
Becomes so fond of her!...

Those who are born in her bounds,
Those who are coddled by her,
Grieve when they are far away
Because they are love-struck
By the one who suckled them.

The mother summons the children,
Deaf, sad, wailing;
She whimpers, weeps and sighs,
And does not stop, until she watches
Them arrive in good repair at last.

Poor mother, I love you so!
Mother also ah! of my mother!
I prefer your turf of love over
Everything that is great or severe
In all the whole world.

How else if now I am watching
Over a landscape of silver and roses
All that I went loving in my life,
Rummaging with my eyes
Pleasant, fond memories?

Forests, house, sepulchres,
Belfries and bells
With vague sounds of sweetness
That awaken ah! tender feelings
Which shall never be vain!

They were the ones that pealed
When my children were born there;
They were the ones that cried,
They were the ones that tolled
When my grandparents died.

They were the ones that cheerful
And bounding called to me gently
In the golden early morning hours,
Along with my mother's singsongs
And the affectionate kisses.

I can still see where I used to play
With the girls I loved,
The small backyard where I rested,
The rose bushes I tended
And the dear fountain I drank from.

I watch the solitary road
Bathed in peace by a serene sun,
Undisturbed by discordant hand,
Always the same, never different,
Fertile plain in scenic countryside.

And I see also the manor-house of
Arretén (where my mother was born)
Shrouded in black like a forsaken
Forlorn widow who collapses
In sorrow at the foot of an oak.

There it is, stranded shadow,
Soundless voice, soulless body,
Badly wounded amazon
Who upon sensing she loses her life
Falls asleep in deaf quiescence.

Grand house they dubbed her
In the flourishing days of yore,
When poor people implored it,
And sated and satisfied warmed
Themselves by its loving fireplace.

Grand house, when a saintly
Venerable gentleman
With tranquil noble charm
Afforded shelter to the beggar
Beneath the folds of his mantle.

When the chants in the chapel
Of the Grand house resounded
With fervour and simple faith,
Savoury fruit sprung from the seed
That saintly men sowed.

Now in silence everything
Causes there fear and dread;
A fearful spirit inhabits
The chambers where the stillness
Built a nest with the sadness.

Laughter, songs, harmony,
Gentle melodies, contentment,
Parties, dances, joy,
Turned into the sad and cold
Thrumming voice of the strong wind.

The untended herbs grow
Vigorously in the main yard,
And the brambles blooming
In their season offer the children
Ripened fruit.

And confronting that mute silence
Which no one arrives there to disturb,
Confronting that I was! so rude,
Arises whole a noble coat of arms
That refuses to say, I am not.

Clear slogans it displays impudent
With a splendid, handsome helmet...
But behind an I am so vain
Can be seen the poor human pride
Humbled and tumbledown.

It might be said that piercing eyes
From behind the silent vizor
Stare at us, and say to us,
"Everything is an illusion
In this world of sorrows."

Grand house! Sad house!
From here I observe it so lonesome:
Ochre, dark, sad heap.
Grand house! Pass away, pass away...
You are now nothing more than a sigh.

My grandparents aye! died already,
The rest left you,
Your lustrous years perished,
And those who loved you best
Departed from you as well.

Month after month, stone by stone,
You will keep tumbling down,
Girded by ribbons of ivy,
While another house emerges strong,
For thus the world keeps rolling.

But what light, what feast of colour
Expands in the expanse!
Shines the sun colourless
And the newborn rainbow
Unties a lengthy ribbon.

How it drizzles heavily,
How heavily it drizzles;
How it drizzles heavily
Over toward Laíño,
Over toward Lestrove.