A stork has appeared atop the bell tower.
Turning around the tower and the deserted old manor,
and already the swans screech. They passed the white winter,
of snowstorms and gales, those harsh breaths of hell.
It’s a warm morning.
The son warms warms the poor Sorian earth, a little.
  Gone are the green pines,
almost blue, spring
begins to sprout on the fine
black poplars of the highway
and the river. The Duero flows, smooth and mute, gently.
The field seems, more than young, adolescent.
  Within the grass some humble flower has been born,
blue or white. Oh, beauty of that barely flowering field
and mystical spring!
  Oh, black poplars of that white path, poplars of the riverbank,
foam of the mountain
before the blue distance,
sun of the day, the clear day!
Beautiful land of Spain!