Florentino and the Devil

Florentino silent and brooding
turns his course away to the side.
Cattle-herd of the lonesome vastness,
clad in black by the flames that charred,
a man of the road, but of no road,         
a herdsman without a herd,
it seems that he goes dreaming,
the savannah is in his brain:
he sings a song, tuned truly,
a long and a deep refrain
of his Andaluz America,
of Barinas, language of Spain:
‘Savannah, my savannah,
land sweated for and loved,
unmoving in all directions,                     
watered and water-starved:
one with my soul in aloneness,
one in the faith with the Lord:
on your naked breast I have halted,
this answer I record.
Let him know, the shadowy singer,
I am a man of my word:
I who have sung with all men,
with him shall my voice be heard.’

(Excerpt)