Underwood Girls (Jorge Guillén)

Motionless, asleep they are,
the thirty round whites.
Amongst them all
they sustain the world.
Look at them here in their dream,
like clouds,
rotund, whites and within
destinies of thunder and lightning,
destinies of slow falling rain,
of snow, of wind, signs.
Wake them up,
with bouncing touches
of quick fingers, light,
liking to ancient music.
They play another kind of music:
fantasies of metal
hard waltzes, upon dictation.
That they may rise up since centuries
all equal, distinct
like the waves of the sea
and a great secret soul.
That they may believe that it is a letter,
the formula, as always.
Get really crazy
with your fingers, kidnapping
them and launching them,
the thirty, eternal nymphs
against the great empty world,
white on white.
Finally at the pure exploit,
without words, without sense,
s, z, j, i…

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