(The following poem is a tribute to Nature)

The Woman Without a Name

I found her amid the unknown grandeur

Of a simple life, with no tale to tell,

Learning to decipher

The different whispers of the wind's spell.

In the world of music,

She often lost herself with ease,

And on warm, ashen nights,

She surrendered to love's sweet release.

The woman without a name,

Or whose name time has concealed...

The one who dreamt of satin and massage,

Of carpets, sheets and pillows that weighed no scale,

Whose touch upon my skin was like a velvet corsage.

On hot afternoons, her rattle's sound

Rang like church bells to appease

The jealousy around,

Her hips counted the waves of a boundless seas.

The woman without a name,

Or whose name I can't recall...

The one who bathed in stars and made me feel a star,

Who spawned a spiral that surpassed all,

Child, man, and old alike, so far.

With her smile, she helped to found cities,

And with scarce eyes,

Under a brothel's roof, she sold her flesh and pity

To feed a noble thought that would rise.

The woman who, with courage, stood

Before the threshold of war,

That fatal, mythological phantasm

That creates monsters with hideous grimace,

And children with petrified eyes,

Beyond pain, tears, and fear's embrace...

On her childhood bed, every chance she got,

She cradled a soft toy to conquer the sky,

And dreamt of a blue palace and a golden throne,

Where the children of the sun sought

A heart to love and not to die.

The woman, a memory of goddesses,

Of muses and nymphs for every tryst,

Or of sleeping sirens on the shore that blesses

Where the firmament begins to exist,

Lifted by clouds on a journey of sweet bliss.

I saw her in the jungle, too,

With emerald eyes, listening to the echo,

Dispensing nectar among the flowers,

Perfuming the air with her breath's flow.

Suddenly she sat on the ground,

Embroidering dry leaves with fresh moss's thread...

The woman without a name, or whose name is yet to be found,

The one dressed in rainbows and laughter's spread.

The one who flirts with the moon from afar,

Or with a symphony on her palate's slope,

Leads us to ecstasy through the celestial star.

In her lap, after each life's end,

Once more, with rare tenderness, she hides our frame,

To feel, like blood, our waters in her veins,

And purify the elements at the bottom of the sea, as if to ascend.

10-. satin = charmeuse.

51-. Amaranth = a flower that never dies.

54-. empyrean = heaven.

Francisco Luis Arroyave Tabares.

Translated into English by ChatGPT.