nocturnal air

I’m petrified
by dead leaves,
by meadows
full of dew.
I’ll sleep.
If you don’t wake me,
I’ll leave beside you my cold heart.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

Round your neck I placed
the gems of dawn.
Why do you desert me
on this road?
If you go off so far
my bird sobs,
and the green vineyard
won’t give its wine.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

You’ll never know
how much I’d
have loved you,
snow-sphinx,
in those dawns
when it rains so hard
and the nest comes apart
on the dry branch.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

Federico Garcia Lorca

Landscape

The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
a sunken sky,
and a cold dark rain
of morning-stars.
Half-light and rushes tremble
at the river’s edge.
Grey air crinkles.
The olive trees
are freighted
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds
moves long long tails
in the gloom.

Federico Garcia Lorca