Reading Heredia's "Sieste" in January
No sound of insect or of hungering bee.
All sleeps, in woods beaten by the sun
Where the thick foliage filters a light
Dark as velvet and soft as emerald.
A splendid noon swaggers above, sifting
Through the obscure dome, and on my eyelashes
A thousand furtive lights make crimson webs
Stretch and tangle across the heated shade.
Towards the gauze of fire woven by the rays
Labors a fragile swarm of butterflies
Drunk with the light and with the running sap.
My fingers fumble with each waning thread
And in the golden mesh of melting lines
I struggle to imprison what is gone.
Another of my unfaithful translations, even more unfaithful than usual. You can read the original here.