Look, Platero, how many roses are falling all around; blue roses, white roses, roses without color…. One would think that the sky were dissolving into roses. Look how the roses are covering my forehead, my shoulders, my hands…. What shall I do with so many roses?
Do you know, I wonder, for I do not, where this delicate flower comes from? Daily it casts a mantle of tenderness over the landscape, leaving it softly pink, white and blue…. more roses, more roses…. like a painting by Fra Angelico who always knelt to paint the sky.
One would think that they were throwing roses to the earth from the seven galleries of Paradise. Like a warm and lightly colored snowfall the roses lie on the tower, on the roof, on the trees. Look; all the strong lines, with their adornment, become delicate. More roses, more and more roses….
It seems, Platero, while the Angelus is ringing, that this life of ours loses its daily force and that another force from within, loftier, purer and more constant, causes everything to rise, like fountains of grace, to the stars which are beginning to sparkle now among the roses. More roses…. Your eyes, which you cannot see, Platero, and which you raise meekly to the sky, are two beautiful roses.