When wind dips calmly over the blue sea
my cowardly soul stirs. My love for land
becomes a craving for the vast salt waters.
But when the ocean bottom roars, and foam boils
spitting skyward on the wild crashing waves,
I gaze at the shore and its forests, and shun
the sea. Then I love black earth and shadowy
woods where even during a blasting gale
a pine tree sings. What a wretched life
the fisherman has—with his berth a home,
the sea his labor and fish his wandering prey!
I prefer to sleep under a leafy plane
and hear the plashing of a bubbling spring
which soothes the soul and never brings me pain.



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