I am the first love. I am the enchantment.
I am the pain of that white form
the time you wrapped yourself in your cloak
and studied here or in Salamanca.

Woman is pain. But of all,
I am she who worst wounds and blinds and maims,
I am the first night of the nuptials
of the soul, to which none ever came.

I launch my glances like falcons
to all those virgin souls
that give easy prey to women.
I am she who smiles on the balconies
full of the moon, in the outskirts,
to the poets and the freshmen.

Sometimes I was the cousin, cousin mine,
white as the flower of the lemon tree
and when you brushed my hand
you gave me more than a body entire.

Perhaps I gave you my mouth. But be sure
that if you kissed it, it was only once
astride the wall
and I so closely wrapped against the moon
that when I saw you go you went drunk,
forehead high, in your smile a prayer
and you kissed the air; and you went
blinded by me as by a light shining in all things.

Students, you whom Honduras
or Nicaragua sends to Guatemala
and who mingle dreams and penury
and live three or four in a room;

Crimson immigration of youths
half bohemians and half singers
sonorous with the preludes of lutes,
luminous with the blood of stars,

Who all know the mad cup
And stand two months in your landlord's debt;
I am that golden-haired school girl
who, with a kiss which she left on your mouth,
pinned a wing to your shoulders
and put the sun in your hearts.