To A Deaf and Blind Muse (A Un Sordo y Ciego Musa)

You, who cannot hear
my singing, then what use
is there for writing my songs
and heaving breaths?

You, who did not choose
that in the mornings,
you could not hear
the rooster crowing,
the birds singing
and my heart that vainly
tries to let its voice
reach your heart.

You, who was chosen
not to hear the evils -
the explosion of bombs
and the cries of the wounded.
I envy you for being pure
in soul - for having not heard me
cursing your fate
as you can never hear me.

It must have been hard -
I know for there are times
that I walk beneath hurricanes
but you. who never saw
how happy the world has been
for having captivated a muse
in your form.
And you never see the sun setting;

that with all its grandeur,
you may ask me how it felt.
I'd spell out in your palm
the heat that it gave me.
Oh lovely muse, be not afraid.
You may not know the singing of birds
or the setting of the sun,
but this I promise you:

That at the end of each day,
I'll grab your hand and open it.
I'll spell in your palm
how everything felt.
Love is not something to hear,
also not a figure to see.
But I will let the warmth
reach you.

I'll grab your hand
and place it on my chest.