Lullaby of the Onion

^{translated from the Spanish by Robert Bly}

The onion is frost

shut in and poor.

Frost of your days

and of my nights.

Hunger and onion,

black ice and frost

large and round.

My little boy 

was in hunger’s cradle.

He was nursed

on onion blood.

But your blood

is frosted with sugar,

onion and hunger.

A dark woman

dissolved in moonlight

pours herself thread by thread

into the cradle.

Laugh, son,

you can swallow the moon

when you want to.

Lark of my house,

keep laughing.

The laughter in your eyes

is the light of the world.

Laugh so much

that my soul, hearing you,

will beat in space.

Your laughter frees me,

gives me wings.

It sweeps away my loneliness,

knocks down my cell.

Mouth that flies,

heart that turns

to lightning on your lips.

Your laughter is

the sharpest sword,

conqueror of flowers

and larks.

Rival of the sun.

Future of my bones

and of my love.

The flesh fluttering,

the sudden eyelid,

and the baby is rosier

than ever.

How many linnets 

take off, wings fluttering,

from your body!

I woke up from childhood:

don’t you wake up.

I have to frown:

always laugh.

Keep to your cradle,

defending laughter

feather by feather.

Yours is a flight so high,

so wide

that your body is a sky

newly born.

If only I could climb

to the origin

of your flight!

Eight months old you laugh

with five orange blossoms.

With five little

ferocities.

With five teeth

like five young

jasmine blossoms.

They will be the frontier

of tomorrow’s kisses

when you feel your teeth

as weapons,

when you feel a flame

running toward your gums

driving toward the centre.

Fly away, son, on the double

moon of the breast:

it is saddened by onion,

you are satisfied.

Don’t let go.

Don’t find out what’s happening,

or what goes on.