Tonight the moon dances with laziness; As well as beauty On the cushions of many who dream. With its dull light like a distracted hand It caresses the outlines of ourselves as we fall asleep. On the satin back of the soft avalanches, Dying, she surrenders to the long swoon, And walks in our eyes, a white vision Rising and settling like a flower blossoms Resting on the horizon, in its idle languor, The moon lets slip a furtive tear, Which becomes enemy of sleep to a pious poet In the hollow of my hand, I take that pale tear, The iridescent reflection like a fragment of opal, And put it in my heart away from the eyes of the sun.