Death, I speak of it (tiếng Anh)

Death, I speak of it
Just as I would speak of dollars and pesetas
Though I have never set foot in America,
Though in my blood there flows a virgin Spain
Like the flavor of a ripe pomegranate,
Though I have never tasted pomegranate...
I speak of death
As I pronounce my name;
It is a very old habit,
It is deathly to speak of it...
Yet there is a kind that no one speaks of
Because it is naked and cannot be clothed.
Death sunk like a fist in a pillow:
The last look on my mother’s face.
Then there is a kind that blossoms inside,
Breathes me in, absorbs me, feeds on me,
The kind that is my other Life.
The kind of death that no one speaks of.