In many ways I've left behind the things and loves
I cherished most, and yet as years go by the word
adios is bound to me with sounds of austral doves,
of unreal Patagonian skies, where a circling bird

will swoop to snatch a creature fleeing in the brush;
of trails the Puelche stalked in bygone days,
of Indian camps so far removed from noise and rush,
when armies hadn't sliced the steppes with railways

built to traffic guns, nor white man purged
the boundless plains of jaguars and ñandús.
Now concrete dams and pylons emerge
on cactus lands, now bones shed lucent hues

on tablelands swept dry by singing winds.
Thus memory is laced with images
of childhood pastures, as well as tender things
the mind will not let go despite the ravages

of time and loss. So to the present day I smile
to think of worlds I lost, of red horizons
receding in a cone of southern light, as all the while
the spirits summon me from mythic pantheons

of Patagonian lore. Yet in the midst of fading
thoughts that grip my heart, or force an odd grimace
to cling to phantom walls, I cannot bring alive the swaying
poplar trees, nor speak to you, nor touch your face.