delirio

Fragmented evening,
field in silence.
Bee-eaters in flight,
a sigh.
Backcloth of blue and white
deliriums.
The landscape opens
its arms wide.
All too much,
Dear God!

Federico Garcia Lorca

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of the open air dream

Jasmine bloom and butchered bull.
Endless paving. Map. Room. Harp. Dawn.
The girl feigns a jasmine bull
and the bull’s a bleeding sunset, bellowing.

If the sky were a tiny child,
half the jasmines’ night would be darkness,
the bull a blue arena without matadors,
and a heart at the foot of a column.

But the sky’s an elephant,
and jasmine bloodless water.
The girl’s a bough by night
on the huge dark paving.

Between the bull and the jasmine
either marble claws or people sleeping.
In the jasmine, an elephant and clouds
and in the bull the girl’s skeleton.

Federico Garcia Lorca

the silence

My child, hear the silence.
An undulating silence,
a silence
of sliding valleys and echoes
tilting brows
towards the ground.

Federico Garcia Lorca

sesamo

The reflection is
what’s real.
The river
and sky
are doors to take us
to the Eternal.
Down beds of frogs
or beds of bright stars
our love will go off, singing
the morning of the great flight.
The reflection is
what’s real.
Only a heart remains,
only one wind.
Don’t weep!
Near or far,
it’s the same.
Eternal Narcissus,*
Nature’s way.

Federico Garcia Lorca

landscape without song

Blue sky.
Yellow field.

Blue mountain.
Yellow field.

Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.

One lone
olive
tree.

Federico Garcia Lorca

horizonte

A sun without rays
spills on green mist.

The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.

In my spent soul
the sound of a small
silver drum.

Federico Garcia Lorca

song with reflection

In the meadow
my heart danced

(a cypress shadow
on the wind)

and a tree unplaited
the dew breeze.
Breeze, silver to the touch!

I said: do you remember?

(The star
the rose
do not concern me.)

Remember?

Lost language!
Language
without horizons!

Remember?

In the meadow
my heart danced

(a cypress shadow
on the wind).

Federico Garcia Lorca