Fragrance of a rose

Tremulous light, the smell of vineyards, the rustic flute

of an ardent nightingale that moans and thinks no more.

Chaste amidst the trees like a virgin fast asleep, 

a row of wheat waving on the hilltop.

Night’s pure bird that makes stars shudder 

with its echoing soul full of plaintive sighs: 

withered roses pave pale carpets 

where the roving light of thought is lost.

Near a star that sheds tears, the fragrance of a rose 
silent and timid, beneath a sky far too pure. 
These azure tears granted you more sweet-scented aroma, 
oh chaste sober sadness of the reclusive soul!

And, while upon the breast of every newborn Spring 

your weeping will live forever, pure bird of night, 

my sigh will perish unnoted, as it falters 

beside the fountainhead of your sweet scent, oh frail rose!

Marià Manent 
(Barcelona, 1898 - 1988)