translated from the Catalan by Rebecca Simpson

Up the shortcuts of the sky,
the tired dawn climbs.
She’s come from the springs of the Levant
loaded with dripping washing:
green that greens the cane stands
blue dyed blue that’s folded over.

—Red beats, bloody,
on the fingernails of darkness.

Apple orchards of the rising sun!
There, dawn turns back:
she’s got the poplars standing tall,
smooth and quiet the moss.
All things, suddenly,
empty their shadows on the ground.

—Gray, halfway to silver,
falls asleep on bushes of thyme.