You may not be touched by night, breeze or dawn glow;
but only by the earth, the virtue of the flowers,
the apples that grow hearing the pure water,
the soil and resins of your fragrant land.

From Quinchamalí where they created your eyes
to La Frontera where they made your feet for me,
you are the dark clay that I know well:
touching your hips I touch all the wheat again.

Perhaps you did not know, Arauca girl,
that when I forgot your kisses before I loved you
my heart still remembered your mouth,

and I staggered through the streets as though wounded
until I comprehended that I had found,
darling, my territory of kisses and volcanoes.