This rose in the sky, motionless, pure;
And this air, which surrounds it and invites it:
And she, in her own suspended dream,
Serena, in her fickle architecture.
It's almost glass, in the safe
Presence of its shaken line:
So perfect, in tone, and measure,
Exact, tedious and beautiful.
The air passes, and she, alone, falls,
Drunk in the tacit perfume,
Hidden among his silk napkin.
And in the high night its virtue sums up
Trembling drop that, in the shadow rolls,
And in barren silence is consumed!
-José Umaña Bernal