Flower poems

To the most beautiful flower in my garden,

my beautiful sunflower, you make me smile,

I look at you from afar and you make me feel …

that I am still alive … that I have been happy.

YOLANDA BARRY

I have a little flower

born without realizing it

in the middle of the heart.

In the land of blood

its radiance was fertilized.

It is delicate and it dies

without care and without pampering.

Requires a lot of attention

against the summer heat,

against the cold of winter,

against cruel disappointment

that causes so much damage

over the years.

It blooms in the spring,

withers in the summer

and in the winter it dies,

if my hand does not take care of it.

It remains illusion!

With the water of love

Throw passion flowers

and rejoices at the window,

when the sun caresses it.

It’s all I have!

I don’t know how it happened.

I grew, without realizing it,

In the middle of the heart.

CARLOS ETXEBA

Cultivate a white rose

in June as in January,

For the honest friend,

who gives me his frank hand.

And for the cruel that tears me away

the heart with which I live,

Thistle or nettle cultivation

cultivate a white rose.

JOSE MARTI

I found it by my destiny,

standing in the middle of the meadow,

governor of the one who passes,

the one who talks to you and who sees it.

And she told me: “Go up the mountain.

I never leave the meadow

and cut my white flowers

like snows, hard and tender. “

I climbed the acid mountain

I looked for the flowers where they grow,

between the rocks existing

half asleep and awake.

When I came down, with my burden,

I found her in the middle of the meadow,

and I was covering her frantic,

with a torrent of lilies.

And without looking at the whiteness,

she told me: “You carry

now only red flowers.

I can’t pass the meadow. “

I climb the penalties with the deer,

and I looked for flowers of madness,

those that redden and seem

that of redness they live and die.

GABRIELA MISTRAL

What a sad joy to do all things as she did!

My hand turns blue, I am infected with another poetry

And the scent roses, which I put as she put them, exalt its color;

and the beautiful cushions, which I put as she put them, her gardens flourish;

And if I put my hand – as she put it – on the piano black,

emerges as in a very distant piano, the daily melody deeper.

What a sad joy to do all things as she did!

I lean to the balcony windows, with a gesture from her

and it seems that the poor heart is not alone.

I look at the garden in the evening, like her,

and the sigh and the star merge in romantic harmony.

What a sad joy to do all things as she did!

In pain and with flowers, I go, like a hero of my poetry.

Through the deserted corridors that she awoke with her white step,

and my feet are satin – oh! Hollow and cold absence! –

and my footsteps leave gleams.

JUAN RAMÓN JIMÉNEZ

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