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looking west with concern, looking at that black cloud that threatens snow download your middle of August, trying to figure out why the hell are we shortened paradise early, one month less than four weeks at least thirty days less, expelled for eating the forbidden fruit, Angel Aguirre and punishing with his hundred eyes that see, spyware and account, and now comes the snow, and must be collected the store, and I've seen legs shake you to think this is over, you're getting married soon, that we are making the short days, low stream water getting colder, and indeed, this is paradise, but nobody had warned us that forbidden fruits, no one said you can eat all the fruits of these trees but do not try the apple (and we have eaten a few, eh, cowboy?), nobody told us that we should not look us in the eyes: we spoke of lost sheep, the dangers of lighting fires on the mountain, catering to bored to force repeated ray killing entire herds of horses bolted and jump into the abyss, but nobody warned us about the crossing looks, nobody told us we could not even spend rozarnos the cup coffee, we should flee from the throats and the way in which hair is lost after the collar, which we avoid feeling our breath juntásemos heads warm when watching the stars drunken moon.

looking west with concern, checking how the peaks are hiding behind a white cloak that turns orange and purple with the last rays of the afternoon, the birds are gone, the sheep tremble stiff with cold, remaining apples, but few (and we're going to eat all this night, eh, cowboy?), we will not leave or leaves, because nobody warned us of the dangers of green eyes that are casually and last a couple of seconds longer appropriate.


Another bit of Luis Cernuda, also blinded by a blonde look:

Sailors are the wings of love,
are the mirrors of love, sea
accompanies them,
blond and his eyes are the same as
love is blonde too, as are his eyes.

Joy lively veins draining into
blonde is also identical to the skin
looming;
not let them go because the freedom
smile smiles
blinding light straight into the sea.

If a sailor is sea, Tues
blonde whose presence is love song, I do not want
the city made of dreams gray;
I just go to the sea where I was swamped,
boat aimlessly,
aimless body sink into his light blond.