My dog has died.
I buried he garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day Ill join there,
but now ,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, terialist, who never believed
in any promised he sky
for any human being,
I believe in a er.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
ws for my arrival
waving ail in friendship.
Ai, Ill not speak of sadness h,
of a companion
who was never servile.
of a porcupine
s auty,
ar, aloof,
imacy than was called for,
ions:
hes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
my knee
like oth sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me ttention I need,
ttention required
to make a vain person like me understand
t, being a dog, ing time,
but, han mine,
me
reserved for me alone
all and shaggy life,
alroubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, imes ail
as ogethe sea
in ter of Isla Negra
he sky
and my
full of tage of t:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
ail held high,
face to face he oceans spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know o be happy
onomy
of t.
there are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and noo eacher.
So now hes gone and I buried him,
and ts all to it.
translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer