The Breeze tells me, Loved One... by Antonio Machado

The breeze tells me, loved one,
of your pure white dress . . .
My eyes may not see you,
but my heart awaits.

The wind has brought me
your name in the morning;
the echo of your step
resounds on the hill . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.

In the somber towers
the bells are tolling . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.

The falling hammer
tells me of the black box;
and the place for the grave,
the sound of the spade . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.