Confession on a street corner in Madrid close to O'Donell

Where is the little marchioness of Avila in all the length and breadth of Spain?
when the fire of the night escapes my hands
and in every corner of this green room, a secret loses its intimate words
because there is nobody with the desire to discover us here, inside
in this hotel in Calle O’Donell.
So here we are, my dear Santa Teresa,
with a reality that has driven us crazy for more than a week
and I awake me , and I awake you my marchioness, for telling you
that the city still exists beyond the tired dawn
with its faded petals in this interminable calm.
Madrid winks at us, hiding itself like we
In the autumnal foliage of El Retiro.
the Gate of Alcalá will let us pass like other lovers
before
and behind the Prado Museum I will tell you that you are only mine,
regardless the wasps that skilfully move and sting
or the peacocks in the neighbouring botanical garden
shouting their existence.
When the clock heralds the morning the suitcases will compel
departure
and you will accompany me as we turn our backs on the day
to avoid what will come,
you will smile nervously like respectful lady, with a faint tremble
in those my Spanish lips.
We will be happy, dear lady, I will say with a hint of sadness
even in the texture of many dreams,
in the endless happenings in so many other places,
perhaps in another hotel in Calle O’Donell.


(Translated by Elise Neil)