¡Mi corazón es una mariposa,
niños buenos del prado!,
que presa por la araña gris del tiempo
tiene el polen fatal del desengaño
(My heart’s a butterﬂy,
good children of the ﬁeld,
pinned by time’s grey spider,
ﬁlled with disillusionment’s deadly pollen.)
Federico Garcia Lorca
The gold booty of Gyges means nothing to me.
I don’t envy that Lydian king, nor am I jealous
of what gods can do, nor of the tyrants’ great
powers. All these are realms beyond my vision.
The passion of my heart is sharp
and stealing ever on, brings pain;
burns like a stirred-up fire, smokeless;
wastes like a mortal fever every limb.
My father cannot save me nor my mother
nor even you, my friend.
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast;
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, peace; she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet;
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Blossoms scent the air
a carefree birdsong
I wait, white clouds
and dark clouds passing –
a cuckoo cries.
In all ages, always, everywhere, and everywhere
It repeats itself, that cruel dream—
The inexplicable kiss of Judas
And the ring of the accursed silver.
To understand such things is a task in vain.
Humanity conjectures once again:
Let him betray (when he cannot do else),
But why a kiss on the lips? …