Nancy Morejón, Analysis of Melancholy (Cuba)

Hours passing
                         like a breeze.
Shadows of a living world,
passing like a breeze,
they bring me to speak with you.

Stepping into a river. Skipping
over puddles. Jumping
over a wall. Reading
the day’s news. Discovering
rain. Walking under the leaves
of the silk-cotton tree. Singing
in the afternoon.

                           Beating
with its erotic pulse: quiet and pure melancholy.

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