This is one of Quevedo's great sonnets on disillusion and death, from the same world as «Amor constante más allá de la muerte». Everywhere he looks — the walls of his homeland, the fields, the stream, his house, his sword, his staff — everything gives back an image of ruin and reminds him that he is dying.
The poem builds by piling up evidence: the once-strong walls, now crumbled; the sun drinking up the streams; the cattle complaining of the stripped field. And it closes by turning inward, to his own most personal things — the sword, the staff — themselves worn down by age. There is nowhere to rest the eye that is not a memory of death.
The verse is kept in Spanish. Translating it in passing would replace the work with a paraphrase of it.