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

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Balada triste

¡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

i was sitting

I was sitting in a Third-Class carriage; an old priest
Took out his pipe and stuck his calm head,
With its pale hair, out of the window, into the wind.
Then this Christian, ignoring gibes and provocations,
Turned and asked me, vigour tinged with sadness,
If I could spare him some tobacco – seems
He’d once been head padre to some Royal or other
Sentenced yet again –
To lessen the boredom of a tunnel, dark vein
Opened to passengers, near Soissons, a town in Aisne.

Arthur Rimbaud

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