SONNET XLI

Misfortunes of the month of January when indifferent
noon establishes its equation in the sky,
a solid gold like wine in an overflowing glass
fills the earth to its blue limits.

Misfortunes of this time, appearing like tiny grapes
that bunch together in green bitterness,
confused, secret tears of the days,
until the elements divulge their clusters.

Yes, seeds, grief, everything that pulses
terrified, in the crackling light of January,
will ripen, ferment, as the fruit ferments.

The sorrows will be divided: the soul
give a gasp of air, and the dwelling-place
will be left clean, with fresh-made bread on the table.