The Dead Woman (La Mujer Muerta)
The Dead Woman
In Segovia, more than a thousand centuries ago,
Two brothers dream of a lady:
She is nineteen Aprils old,
and she has the soul of a young girl of snow.
Blanca is the lady of a castle in the pine forest;
Lady of a madness that they must hide,
As well as of a double-edged pain in heat,
Blood, and swords that fight a duel.
South of the sunset,
Your womanly body
In the shape of a statue of sand and salt,
Is stretched out all alone.
They expect so many loving heartbeats from her,
That they do not fit inside all her years.
And on her bed with a Judas opening,*
The flower of doubt is plucked.*
Tame, like a dove of peace,
With vain intentions of kindness,
She spreads out her wings between
The two, her tenderness split in half.
Two foils in lethal combat stand in
The way, with a very dark fate.
Blanca's hands, like olive trees,
Are in the truce of the crossroads.
In the grey valley of Guadarrama,
The silhouette of an icy slope reconciles
The northern and the southern suns,
And it reclines itself on the horizon.