My dog has died.

        I buried he garden

        o a rusted old mae.

        Some day Ill join    there,

        but now ,

        his bad manners and his cold nose,

        and I, terialist, who never believed

        in any promised he sky

        for any human being,

        I believe in a er.

        Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom

        ws for my arrival

        waving ail in friendship.

        Ai, Ill not speak of sadness h,

        of    a panion

        who was never servile.

        of a pore

        s auty,

        ar, aloof,

        imacy than was called for,

        ions:

        hes

        filling me full of his hair or his mange,

        my knee

        like oth sex.

        No, my dog used to gaze at me,

        payiention I need,

        ttention required

        to make a vain person like me uand

        t, being a dog, ing time,

        but, han mine,

        me

        reserved for me alone

        all    and shaggy life,

        alroubling me,

        and asking nothing.

        Ai, imes ail

        as ogethe sea

        in ter of Isla Negra

        he sky

        and my

        full of tage of t:

        my wandering dog, sniffing away

        ail held high,

        face to face he os spray.

        Joyful, joyful, joyful,

        as only dogs know o be happy

        onomy

        of t.

        there are no good-byes for my dog who has died,

        and    noo eacher.

        So now hes gone and I buried him,

        and ts all to it.

        translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer
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