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Winter sun

septimo

Antonio Machado

It is noon. A park.
Winter. White paths;
symmetrical mounds
and skeletal branches.

In the greenhouse
orange trees in pots,
and in its barrel, painted
green, the palm tree.

An old man says,
to his old cape:
«The sun, this beauty
of the sun!…» Children play.

The water of the fountain
slides, runs and dreams
lapping, almost silent,
against the greenish stone.

septimoWinter sun